GIFT  OF 

|V     tt 


POPULAR   NOVELS. 

By  May  Agnes  Fleming. 

l.-GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 
2.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 
3.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 
4.— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 
5.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 
6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 
7.— KATE  DANTON.     (New.) 


Mrs.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  and  more  popu 
lar  every  day.     Their   delineations    of    character, 
lifelike    conversations,    flashes    of    wit,    con- 
Btantly  varying  scenes,   and  deeply  in 
teresting  plots,  combine  to  place 
their  author   in    the  very 
first  rank  of  Modern 
Novelists." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.    Price  $1.75  each, 
and  sent/rce  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

Ct.  W.  CARI.ETON  &  CO.,  Publisher, 
New  York. 


MAD    MARRIAGE 


BY 

MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 


AUTHOR  OF 
»       ft 


"GUY    EARLSCOURT'S    WIFE,"    "A    WONDERFUL    WOMAN," 
"A   TERRIBLE    SECRET,"    (( NORIXE'S 


"REVENGE,"  ETC. 


' Such  a  mad  Marriage  ntver  ivas  before" 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


NEW   YORK: 

G.    W.    Carlcton    &   Co.,    Publishers. 

LONDON:    S.   LOW,  SON  &  CO., 
MDCCCLXXVI. 


g  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XII.—"  They  Shall  Take  Who  Have  the  Power  " 190 

XIII.— Lightly  Won,  Lightly  Lost 200 

XIV.—"  Once  More  Ihe  Gate  Behind  Me  Falls  " 214 

XV.—"  Stay  " 224 

XVI.—"  Gordon  Caryll " 230 

X VI L— Through  the  Sunset 237 

XVIII.— Killing  the  Fatted  Calf 246 

XIX.— How  the  Old  Year  Ended 263 


PART    III. 


I. — How  the  New  Year  Began 273 

II.— "  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci" 292 

III.— In  the  Streets 307 

IV.— Donny 3J7 

V. — What  Love's  Young  Dream  Sometimes  Conies  to 325 

VI.— At  the  Varieties 335 

VII.—"  After  Many  Days  " 346 

VIII.— A  Morning  Call 357 

IX.—"  The  Parting  that  They  Had  " 367 

X.—"  If  any  Calm,  a  Calm  Despair" 375 

XL— M.  Le  Prince 385 

XIL— At  the  Bal  d'Opera. 393 

XIIL— After  the  Ball 400 

XIV.— Chez  Madame 408 

XV.— "  How  the  Night  Fell" 416 

XVI.  — "Loyal  au  Mort  " 424 

XVII.— How  the  Mornir  g  Broke 438 

XVIII.— While  it  was  Yet  Day 446 

XIX.—"  Post  Tcnebrae,  Lux  " 454 


A  MAD   MARRIAGE. 


CHAPTER   I. 
JOAN  KENNEDY'S  STORY — "THE  HOUSE  THAT  WOULDN'T 

LET." 

|T  lay  down  in  a  sort  of  hollow,  the  hillside  sloping 
up  behind,  crowned  with  dark  pine  woods,  shut  in 
by  four  grim  wooden  walls,  two  dark  windows,  like 
scowling  eyes,  to  be  seen  from  the  path,  and  was 
known  to  all  as  "  THE  HOUSE  THAT  WOULDN'T  LET." 

It  stood  neither  on  street  nor  high  road.  You  left  the 
town  behind  you — the  queer,  fortified,  Frenchified  town  of 
Quebec  ;  you  passed  through  St.  John's  Gate,  through  St. 
John's  street-outside-the-gate,  to  the  open  country,  and,  a 
mile  on,  you  came  upon  a  narrow,  winding  path,  that  seemed 
straggling  out  of  sight,  and  trying  to  hide  itself  among  the 
dwarf  cedars  and  spruces.  Following  this  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  passing  one  or  two  small  stone  cabins,  you  came  full 
upon  Saltmarsh — this  house  that  wouldn't  let. 

It  was  an  ugly  place — a  ramshackle  place,  the  lonesomest 
place  you  could  see,  but  still  why  it  wouldn't  let  was  not  so 
clear. 

The  rent  was  merely  nominal.  Mr.  Barteaux,  its  owner, 
kept  it  in  very  good  repair.  There  was  a  large  vegetable 
garden  attached,  where,  if  you  were  of  an  agricultural  turn, 
you  might  have  made  your  rent  twice  over.  There  was 
game  in  the  woods;  trout  in  the  ice-cold  brooks;  but  no 


!O  JOAN  KENNEDY'S  STORY. 

venturous  sportsman  took  up  his  abode  at  Saltmarsh.  It 
wasn't  even  haunted ;  it  looked  rather  like  that  sort  of  thing, 
but  nobody  ever  went  exactly  so  far  as  to  affirm  that  it  was. 
No  ghastly  corpse-lights  ever  glimmered  from  those  dull 
upper  windows,  no  piercing  shrieks  ever  rent  the  midnight 
silence,  no  spectre  lady,  white  and  tall,  ever  flitted  through 
the  desolate  rooms  of  Saltmarsh.  No  murder  had  ever 
been  done  there  ;  no  legend  of  any  kind  was  connected  with 
the  place,  its  history  was  prosy  and  commonplace  to  a  de 
gree.  Yet  still,  year  in,  year  out,  the  inscription  remained 
up  over  the  dingy  wooden  gateway,  THIS  HOUSE  TO  BE  LET  ; 
and  no  tenant  ever  came. 

"  Tom  Grimshaw  must  have  been  mad  when  he  built  the 
beastly  old  barn,"  the  present  proprietor  would  growl ; 
"what  with  taxes,  and  repairs, and  insurance,  there  it  stands, 
eating  its  own  head  off,  and  there  it  may  stand,  for  what  I 
see,  to  the  crack  of  doom.  One  would  think  the  very  trees 
that  surround  it  say,  in  their  warning  dreariness,  as  the  sen- 
tinels  of  Helheim  used  in  Northern  mythology  : 

"  *  Who  passes  here  is  damned.'  " 

If  this  strong  language  rouses  your  curiosity,  and  you 
asked  the  proprietor  the  history  of  the  house,  you  got  it 
terse  and  lucid,  thus  : 

"  Old  Tom  Grimshaw  built  it,  sir.  Old  Tom  Grimshaw 
was-  my  maternal  uncle,  rest  his  soul ;  it  is  to  be  hoped  he 
has  more  sense  in  the  other  world  than  he  .ever  had  in  this. 
He  was  a  misogynist,  sir,  of  the  rabidest  sort,  hating  a  petti 
coat  as  you  and  I  hate  the  devil.  Don't  know  what  infernal 
mischief  the  women  had  ever  done  him — plenty,  no  doubt ;  it 
is  what  they  were  created  for.  The  fact  remains — the  sight 
of  one  had  much  the  same  effect  upon  him  as  a  red  scarf  on 
a  mad  bull.  He  bought  this  marshy  spot  for  a  song,  built 
that  disgustingly  ugly  house,  barricaded  himself  with  that 
timber  wall,  and  lived  and  died  there,  like  Diogenes,  or 
Robinson  Crusoe,  or  any  other  old  bloke  you  like.  As  heir- 
at-law,  the  old  rattle-trap  fell  to  me,  and  a  precious  legacy 
it  has  been,  I  can  tell  you.  It  won't  rent,  and  it  has  to  be 
kept  in  repair,  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  old  Tom  Grimsha\v 
had  taken  it  with  him,  wherever  he  is  ! " 


JOAN  KENNEDY'S  STORY.  IX 

That  was  the  history  of  Saltmarsh.  For  eight  years  it 
was  to  be  let,  and  hadn't  let,  and  that  is  where  the  matter 
began  and  ended. 

Gray,  lonely,  weather-beaten,  so  I  had  seen  the  forlorn 
house  any  time  these  twenty  years  ;  so  this  evening  of  which 
I  am  to  write  I  saw  it  again,  with  the  mysterious  shadow  of 
desolation  brooding  over  it,  those  two  upper  windows  frown 
ing  down — sullen  eyes  set  in  its  sullen,  silent  face.  From 
childhood  it  had  had  its  fascination  for  me — it  had  been  my 
Bluebeard's  castle,  my  dread,  my  delight.  As  I  grew  oldei, 
this  fascinating  horror  grew  with  -my  growth,  and  at  seven- 
and-twenty  it  held  me  with  as  powerful  a  spell  as  it  had  done 
at  seven. 

It  was  a  cold  and  overcast  February  afternoon.  An  icy 
blast  swept  up  from  the  great  frozen  gulf,  over  the  heights  of 
Quebec,  over  the  bleak,  treeless  road,  along  which  I  hurried 
in  the  teeth  of  the  wind.  In  the  west  a  stormy  and  lurid 
sunset  was  fading  out — fierce  reds  and  brazen  yellows  pal 
ing  into  sullen  gray.  One  long  fiery  lance  of  that  wrathful 
sunset,  slanting  down  the  pines,  struck  those  upper  windows 
of  Saltmarsh,  and  lit  them  into  sheets  of  copper  gold. 

I  was  in  a  hurry — I  was  the  bearer  of  ill  news — and  ill 
news  travels  apace.  It  was  bitterly  cold,  as  I  have  said, 
and  snow  was  falling.  I  had  still  half  a  mile  of  lonesome 
high  road  to  travel,  and  night  was  at  hand ;  but  the  spell  of 
Saltmarsh,  that  had  never  failed  to  hold  me  yet,  held  me 
again.  I  stood  still  and  looked  at  it ;  at  those  two  red  cy- 
clopean  eyes,  those  black  stacks  of  chimneys,  its  whole  for 
bidding,  scowling  front. 

"  It  is  like  a  house  under  a  curse,"  I  thought ;  "a  dozen 
murders  might  be  done  inside  those  wooden  walls,  and  no 
one  be  the  wiser.  Will  any  human  being  ever  call  Saltmarsh 
home  again,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  This  house  is  to  let  ?  " 

I  am  not  nervous  as  a  rule,  but  as  a  soft  voice  spoke 
these  words  at  my  elbow,  I  jumped.  I  had  heard  no  sound, 
yet  now  a  woman  stood  at  my  side,  on  the  snow-beaten 
path. 

"  I   beg  your  pardon ;  I  have   startled  you,  I  am  afraid. 


j  2  JOAN  KENNED  Y'S  S TOR  Y. 

I  have  been  here  for  some  time  looking  at  this  house.     I  see 
it  is  to  let." 

I  stepped  back  and  looked  at  her,  too  much  surprised  for 
a  moment  to  speak.  To  meet  a  stranger  at  Saltmarsh.  in 
the  twilight  of  a  bitter  February  day,  was  a  marvel  indeed. 

I  stood  and  looked  at  her ;  and  I  thought  then,  as  I  think 
now,  as  I  will  think  to  the  last  day  of  my  life,  that  I  saw  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  faces  on  which  the  sun  ever  shone. 

I  have  said  she  was  a  woman — a  girl  would  have  been  the 
fitter  word ;  whatever  her  age  might  have  been,  she  did  not 
look  a  day  over  seventeen.  She  was  not  tall,  and  she  was 
very  slender ;  that  may  have  given  her  that  peculiarly  childish 
look — I  am  a  tall  young  woman,  and  she  would  not  have 
reached  my  shoulder.  A  dress  of  black  silk  trailed  the 
ground,  a  short  jacket  of  finest  seal  wrapped  her,  a  muff  of 
seal  held  her  hands.  A  hood  of  black  velvet  was  on  her 
head,  and  out  of  this  rich  hood  her  richer  beauty  shone  upon 
me,  a  new  revelation  of  how  lovely  it  is  possible  for  a  woman 
to  be.  Years  have  come  and  gone  since  that  evening,  but 
the  wonderful  face  that  looked  at  me  that  February  twilight, 
for  the  first  time,  is  before  me  at  this  moment,  as  vividly  as 
then.  Two  great,  tawny  eyes,  with  a  certain  wildness  in 
their  light,  a  skin  of  pearl,  a  red  mouth  like  a  child's,  a  low 
forehead,  a  straight  nose,  a  cleft  chin,  the  gleam  of  small, 
white  teeth,  rise  before  me  like  a  vision,  and  I  understand 
how  men,  from  the  days  of  Samson  the  Strong,  have  lain 
down  life  and  honor,  and  their  soul's  salvation,  for  just  such 
women  as  this.  Surely  a  strange  visitant  to  the  house  that 
wouldn't  let,  and  in  the  last  hour  of  the  day. 

All  this  in  a  moment  of  time,  while  we  stand  and  face 
each  other.  Then  the  soft  voice  speaks  again,  with  a  touch 
of  impatient  annoyance  in  its  tone  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  heard  me  ?  This  house  is  to 
let?" 

I  point  to  the  sign,  to  the  legend  and  inscription  affixed 
to  the  gate,  and  read  it  stoically  aloud:  "This  house  to 
be  let." 

"  Evidently  my  lady  is  not  used  to  being  kept  waiting,"  1 
think,  "  whoever  she  is." 


JOAN  KENNEDYS  STORY.  ^ 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  that,"  she  says,  still  impatiently  ;  "  there 
is  no  one  living  in  it  at  present,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Madame,"  I  say,  briefly,  "no  one  has  lived  there  for 
eight  years/' 

The  wonderful  tawny  black  eyes,  almost  orange  in  some 
lights,  and  whose  like  I  have  never  seen  but  in  one  other 
face,  dilate  a  little  as  they  turn  from  me  to  the  dead, 
silent  house. 

"Why?"  she  asks. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  Need  one  ask  that  question,  madame,  after  looking  at 
the  house  ?  Who  would  care  to  live  in  so  lonely,  so  lost  a 
place  as  that  ?  " 

"/would.     No  one  would  ever  think  of  coming  here." 

She  made  the  answer  almost  under  her  breath,  more  to 
herself  than  to  me,  her  pale  face  turned  toward  the  house. 

Its  pallor  struck  me  now,  not  the  pallor  of  ill  health,  or  of 
natural  complexion,  but  such  fixed  whiteness,  as  some  ex 
traordinary  terror  may  once  in  a  lifetime  blanch  a  human  face. 

"  No  one  would  ever  think  of  coming  here,"  I  repeated, 
inwardly.  "  I  should  think  not  indeed.  Are  you  in  hiding 
then,  my  beautiful  young  lady,  and  afraid  of  being  found 
out  ?  You  are  lovelier  than  anything  out  of  a  frame.  You 
are  one  of  the  rich  and  elect  of  the  earth,  or  you  would  not 
be  dressed  like  that,  but  who  are  you,  and  what  are  you  do 
ing  here  alone  and  at  this  hour  ?  " 

The  last  red  light  of  the  sunset  had  entirely  faded  away. 
Cold,  gray,  and  overcast  the  wintry  sky  spread  above  us  like 
a  pall,  and  over  Cape  Diamond,  with  its  citadel  crown, 
swept  the  icy  wind  from  the  frozen  St.  Lawrence.  One  or 
two  white  flakes  came  sifting  down  from  the  fast  drifting  sky 
— night  and  storm  were  falling  together,  and  it  was  still  half 
a  mile  to  my  home. 

"  If  you  desire  any  information  about  this  place,  madame," 
I  said,  "  you  had  better  apply  to  Mr.  Barteaux,  No. —  St. 
Louis  Street,  Quebec ;  he  is  the  present  owner.  It  is  to  let, 
|.nd  he  will  be  very  glad  of  a  tenant.  Good-evening." 

She  made  no  reply,  she  did  not  even  seem  to  have  heard. 
She  stood,  her  hands  in  her  muff,  her  eyes  fixed  with  a 


I4  JOAN  KENNEDY'S  STORY. 

strangely  sombre  intensity  on  the  blank  wooden  wall,  her 
profile  gleaming  cold  and  white  in  the  steely  twilight.  I 
know  little  of  passion  or  despair,  but  surely  it  was  most  pas 
sionate  despair  I  read  in  those  fixed,  sightless  eyes. 

I  turned  and  left  her.  I  was  interested  of  course,  but  it 
would  not  do,  to  stand  mooning  here  and  let  night  overtake 
me.  Once,  as  I  hurried  along  the  deserted  road,  I  looked 
back.  The  small  lonely  figure  still  stood  as  I  had  left  it, 
motionless,  a  black  speck  against  the  chill  darkness  of  the 
wintry  sky. 

"  Something  wrong  there,"  I  thought ;  "  I  wonder  who  she 
is  and  what  has  brought  her  here.  None  of  the  officers' 
wives  or  daughters — I  have  seen  all  of  them  at  the  major's. 
One  thing  is  certain,  Mr.  Barteaux  will  never  rent  Saltmarsh 
to  a  slip  of  a  girl  like  that." 

And  then  the  mysterious  young  lady  and  all  connected 
with  her  slipped  from  my  mind,  for  the  red  light  from  my 
mother's  cottage  streamed  far  afield,  and  the  ill  tidings  i  was 
bringing  home  filled  my  whole  thoughts. 

In  this  strange  record  which  it  becomes  my  duty  to  write, 
a  few  words  of  myself  must  be  said,  and  may  as  well  be  said 
here  and  done  with.  I  was  Joan  Kennedy  then,  and  am 
Joan  Kennedy  still.  I  was  seven-and-twenty  years  of  age, 
and  the  sole  support  of  a  feeble  old  mother  and  a  sister  of 
twelve.  My  mother  who  had  been  a  governess  in  her  youth, 
and  in  her  native  city  of  Glasgow,  had  educated  me  consid 
erably  above  the  station  I  filled,  giving  me  a  very  thorough 
English  education,  and  teaching  me  to  speak  French  with  a 
fine  Scottish  accent.  At  my  father's  death,  ten  years  before, 
I  went  out  to  service,  and  in  service  I  had  remained  ever 
since.  This  night,  as  I  hastened  homeward  through  the 
snowy  darkness,  my  errand  was  to  tell  my  mother  and  sister 
that  I  had  lost  my  place,  and  had  no  present  prospect  of 
being  able  to  get  another.  That  is  Joan  Kennedy's  whole 
past  and  present  history,  so  far  as  you  need  know  it. 

The  darkness  was  all  white  with  whirling  snow  as  I  opened 
the  cottage  door  and  entered.  All  was  bright  and  cosy  here. 
A  large  red  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  the  tea  table  was 
jpread,  a  little  snub-nosed  teapot  wafted  its  incense  alow 


JOAN  KENNEDY'S  STORY.  I$ 

and  aloft,  my  mother  sat  knitting  in  the  ingle  nook,  and  my 
pretty  sister  Jessie  sang,  as  she  stitched  away,  at  the  table. 
At  sight  of  their  snow-powdered  visitor  both  dropped  their 
work  in  amaze. 

"  Joan  !  "  Then  Jessie's  arms  were  around  my  neck,  and 
my  mother's  poor  old  face  lit  up  with  delight;  "Joan!  in 
this  storm,  and  at  this  time  of  night  and  alone  !  Are  you 
alone,  Joan?" 

"  Who  is  likely  to  be  with  me,  little  Jess  ?  Yes,  I  am 
alone ;  and  you  are  likely  to  have  more  of  my  delectable 
society  than  perhaps  may  prove  pleasant  or  profitable. 
Mother  dear,  I  have  lost  my  place." 

"Joan!" 

"  I  am  not  to  blame,  mother,  believe  that.  Only  (it  is 
not  a  pleasant  thing  to  tell)  Mrs.  Englehart  has  taken  it  into 
that  supremely  foolish  head  of  hers  to  be  jealous  of  me — of 
poor,  plain  Joan  Kennedy !  The  major,  a  kind  old  soul, 
has  spoken  a  friendly  word  or  two  in  passing  and — behold 
the  result !  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  I'll  start  out  to 
morrow  morning  and  search  all  Quebec,  and  get  a  situation 
or  perish  in  the  attempt.  And  now,  Mistress  Jessie,  I'll 
take  a  cup  of  tea." 

I  threw  off  my  shawl  and  bonnet,  laughing  for  fear  I 
should  break  down  and  cry,  and  took  my  seat.  As  I  did  so, 
there  came  a  loud  knock  at  the  door.  So  loud,  that 
Jessie  nearly  dropped  the  snub-nosed  teapot. 

"  Good  gracious,  Joan  !  who  is  this  ?  " 

I  walked  to  the  door  and  opened  it — then  fell  back  aghast. 
For  firelight  and  candlelight  streamed  full  across  the  face  of 
the  lady  I  had  seen  at  the  House  to  Let. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?" 

She  did  not  wait  for  permission.  She  walked  in  past  me, 
straight  to  the  fire,  and  stood  before  it.  Furs  and  silks 
were  coated  with  the  fast-falling  snow.  She  drew  her  hands 
out  of  her  muff,  tossed  it  aside,  drew  off  her  gloves,  and  held 
to  the  blaze  two  small  white  hands,  all  twinkling  with  rings. 
Mother  sat  speechlessly  gazing  at  this  dazzling  apparition. 
Jessie  stood  with  eyes  and  mouth  agape,  and  my  own  heart, 
I  must  confess,  fluttered  nervously  as  I  looked.  Who  was 


!6  JOAN  KENNEDY'S  STORY. 

she,  and  what  did  she  want  ?  For  fully  a  niinute  she  stood 
staring  at  the  fire,  then  feeling  that  some  one  must  say  some 
thing,  I  took  heart  of  grace,  and  said  it. 

"  You  have  been  caught  in  the  snow-storm,"  I  ventured, 
drawing  near.  "  I  was  afraid  you  would.  Will  you  please 
to  sit  down?" 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  proffered  politeness.  The 
tawny  eyes  turned  from  the  fire  to  my  face. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  name  ?  "  was  the  strange  young 
lady's  abrupt  question. 

"Joan  Kennedy." 

"  You  are  a  single  woman  ?  " 

"  I  am,  madame." 

"  You  live  here — in  this  house,  with "  a  pause  and  a 

stare  at  mother  and  Jessie. 

"  With  my  mother  and  sister — yes,  at  present.  As  a  rule 
I  live  at  service  in  Quebec." 

"  In  service  ?  "  Another  pause  and  a  stare  at  me.  "  Joan 
Kennedy,  would  you  live  with  me?  " 

This  was  a  leading  question  with  a  vengeance.  "  With 
you,  madame  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  With  me.  I  want  a  maid,  a  companion,  what  you  will. 
Wages  are  no  object — to  a  trustworthy  person.  I  will  give 
anything  she  asks.  I  am  all  alone — all  alone — "  her  lips 
trembled,  her  voice  died  away  ;  "  all  alone  in  the  world.  I 
have  had  great  trouble  and  I  want  some  quiet  place  to  live 
— some  quiet  person  to  live  with  me,  for  awhile.  I  am  go 
ing  to  take  that  house  to  let.  I  was  overtaken  by  the  storm, 
just  now,  and  followed  you  here,  instead  of  going  back  to  the 
hotel.  I  like  your  face — you  look  as  though  you  may  have 
had  trouble  yourself,  and  so  could  feel  for  others.  I  wish 
you  would  come  and  live  with  me.  I  have  told  you  I  am 
in  dreadful  trouble — "  she  paused,  a  sort  of  anguish  coining 
over  her  face  :  "  I  have  lost  my  husband,"  she  said  with  a 
great  gasp,  and  covering  her  face  with  both  hands  broke  out 
into  such  a  dreadful  crying  as  I  never  heard  or  saw  before. 

"  Oh,  poor  dear  ! "  said  my  mother.  For  me,  I  stood  still 
and  looked  at  her.  What  could  I  say — what  could  I  do  ? 
Great  sobs  shook  h^r  from  head  to  foot.  A  widow  !  I  glanced 


JOAN  KENNEDY'S  STORY.  iy 

a  t  her  left  hand.  Yes,  there  among  the  diamonds  gleamed  that 
plain  band  of  gold  that  has  brought  infinite  bliss  or  misery 
to  millions  of  women — a  wedding  ring.  It  lasted  not  two 
minutes.  Almost  fiercely  she  dashed  away  her  tears  and 
looked  up. 

'*  My  name  is  Mrs.  Gordon,"  she  said ;  "  as  I  tell  you,  I 
am  all  alone.  I  came  to  Quebec  yesterday,  I  saw  that  house 
advertised,  and  so  came  to  see  it.  It  suits  me,  and  I  will 
take  it  for  the  next  six  months  at  least.  Some  one  must 
live  with  me  there.  I  like  your  looks.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

Would  I  come  ?  would  I  live  in  the  House  to  Let  ?  I 
stood  gasping — the  proposal  was  like  a  cold  douche — it  took 
my  breath  away. 

" I  will  pay  any  wages  to  a  suitable  person — any  wages" 
emphatically  this ;  "  and  in  advance.  It  is  a  lonely  place, 
it  suits  me  the  better  for  that,  and  you  don't  look  like  a 
young  woman  afraid  of  bogies.  If  you  won't  come," 
haughtily,  "of  course  I  shall  find  some  one  else." 

"  I — I  have  not  refused,"  I  gasped  ;  "  — it's  all  so  sudden. 
You  must  let  me  think  it  over.  I  will  tell  you  to-morrow." 

Her  mood  changed — she  lifted  a  face  to  mine  that  was 
like  the  helpless,  appealing  face  of  a  child — she  held  up  two 
clasped  hands. 

"  Do  come,"  she  said  piteously  ;  "  I  will  pay  you  anything 
— anything !  I  only  want  to  be  quiet  for  awhile,  and  away 
from  everybody.  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world.  I  have  lost 
my  husband — lost  him — lost  him — " 

"  The  lady  is  going  to  faint ! "  screamed  Jessie. 

Sure  enough !  whether  the  heat  of  the  fire  had  overcome 
her,  or  the  "  dreadful  trouble"  of  which  she  spoke  had 
broken  her  down,  she  swayed  unsteadily  to  and  fro,  the 
words  dying  on  her  lips,  and  I  caught  her  as  she  felL 

So  it  was  that  the  first  tenant  of  the  House  to  Let  came 
into  my  home,  and  into  my  life,  to  change  it  utterly  from 
that  hour. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A   WOMAN   WITH   A   SECRET. 

|RS.  GORDON  did  not  leave  our  cottage  that  night 
— did  not  leave  it  for  two  whole  weeks,  and  then 
the  house  that  wouldn't  let  was  let  at  last,  and  Salt- 
marsh  had  a  tenant. 

It  would  be  of  little  use  at  this  late  day  to  detail  all  the 
arguments  -she  used  to  win  me  for  her  attendant  and  com 
panion — the  most  irresistible  argument  of  all  was  wages, 
treble,  fourfold  what  I  had  ever  earned  before,  and  paid  in 
advance.  Of  her  and  her  story  I  had  very  serious  doubts, 
but  beggars  must  not  be  choosers.  I  took  her  money  and 
became  her  paid  companion. 

For  hours  that  night,  after  mother  and  Jessie  were  in  bed, 
I  sat  beside  Mrs.  Gordon,  listening  to  the  story  she  told  of 
herself.  Brief,  vague,  and  unsatisfactory  to  a  degree,  that 
story  was.  She  had  been  an  orphan  from  childhood.  She 
was  not  wealthy,  but  she  had  sufficient  ;  great  trouble  had 
suddenly  come  upon  her,  and  she  had  lost  her  husband  after 
four  months  of  wedded  life.  That  was  all. 

"  Lost  your  husband  !  "  I  repeated,  curiously,  looking  at 
her.  "  Do  you  mean  that  your  husband  is  dead  ?  " 

A  simple  and  natural  question,  surely;  but  her  face,  pale 
before,  turned  of  a  dead  whiteness  from  brow  to  chin. 

"  Dead  of  course,"  she  answered,  huskily  ;  "  for  pity's 
sake,  don't  ask  me  questions.  It  is  only  a  week  ago,  and  I 
cannot  bear  it.  Only  a  week,  and  it  seems  like  a  century. 
And  to  think — to  think  of  all  the  long,  lonely,  empty  years 
that  are  to  come  !  Never  to  hear  his  voice,  never  to  see  his 
face  more  ! " 

And  then  she  broke  down  again  and  wept — oh,  how  she 
wept !  My  heart  was  full  of  compassion,  and  yet — only 


A    WOMAN  WITH  A   SECRET.  jg 

dead  one  week,  and  running  away  like  this,  not  in  mourning, 
not  a  friend  in  the  world,  rich,  young  and  beautiful.  A 
queer  story  on  the  face  of  it — a  very  queer  story  indeed. 

Who  is  to  gauge  the  power  of  woman's  beauty  ?  If  she 
had  been  a  plain  young  person,  I  believe  ten  pounds  a  week 
would  not  have  tempted  me  to  take  up  with  her  and  bury 
myself  alive  at  Saltmarsh.  But  her  wonderful  beauty  fairly 
fascinated  me,  her  lovely  face  won  me,  even  against  my  bet 
ter  judgment. 

"And  if  that  face  can  make  a  fool  of  you,  Joan,  my  dear," 
I  said  to  myself,  as  I  went  to  bed,  "what  awful  havoc  it 
must  make  among  mankind !  How  very  unpleasant  for  poor 
Mr.  Gordon  to  die  and  leave  it,  and  how  desperately  fond 
she  must  have  been  of  him,  to  be  sure  ! " 

"You  will  let  me  stay  here  until  the  house  yonder  is 
ready,"  she  said  next  morning,  with  the  air  of  one  not  used 
to  being  refused.  "  I  dislike  hotels — people  stare  so.  I  will 
make  you  no  trouble,  and  I  want  to  be  perfectly  quiet,  and 
quite  alone." 

It  was  curious  to  see  her  with  her  lovely  face,  her  elegant 
dress,  her  diamond  rings,  and  her  dark  flowing  hair,  so 
strangely  out  of  place  in  our  small,  bare,  homely  house.  I 
hardly  know  whether  she  should  have  stayed  or  not,  but  our 
poverty  pleaded  for  her,  and  I  consented  to  all  she  pro 
posed.  To  take  the  house  for  her,  to  see  it  furnished,  to 
attend  to  everything,  while  she  herself  kept  absolutely  out 
of  sight. 

My  new  duties  began  at  once.  I  went  to  Mr.  Barteaux, 
and  abruptly  informed  him  I  had  a  tenant  for  the  House  to 
Let. 

"A  widow  lady,  sir,"  I  said;  "a  Mrs.  Gordon.  Any 
reasonable  rent  she  is  willing  to  pay,  and  I  am  engaged  to 
live  with  her." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  said  Mr.  Barteaux.  "  You  don't  say 
so  !  A  tenant  at  last.  A  widow  lady,  eh  ?  How  many  in 
family,  Joan  ?  " 

I  knew  the  vision  before  Mr.  Barteaux' s  mind's  eye.  A 
florid  matron  of  fifty,  with  half-a-dozen  strapping  boys  and 
girls. 


2O  A    WOMAN  WITH  A  SECRET. 

11  No  family,  sir.  Quite  a  young  widow.  You  must  close 
the  bargain  with  me,  Mr.  Barteaux ;  her  loss  is  recent,  she 
is  in  trouble,  and  doesn't  feel  like  transacting  business  her 
self.  There  are  no  references ;  instead,  she  will  pay  in  ad 
vance  if  you  choose." 

We  closed  the  bargain  there  and  then  ;  and  that  very  day 
Saltmarsh  was  thrown  open  to  the  sunshine  and  free  winds 
of  Heaven.  What  an  odd,  awesome  feeling  it  gave  me 
to  go  with  my  mysterious  new  mistress  through  the  gruesome 
apartments,  silent  and  forsaken  so  long.  Four,  out  of  the 
ten  rooms  the  house  contained,  were  chosen  to  be  furnished 
and  fitted  up,  papered,  painted,  whitewashed,  carpeted,  cur 
tained.  All  fell  to  me,  and  all  was  done  in  two  brief  weeks, 
and  well  done,  though  I  say  it,  and  Mrs.  Gordon  and  Joan 
Kennedy,  it  was  known  to  all  Quebec,  were  domesticated  at 
Saltmarsh. 

I  wonder  now,  as  I  sit  here  and  look  back  at  that  strange 
time,  that  even  poverty  could  have  tempted  me  to  endure 
the  life  I  led  all  those  dreary  months.  The  listless,  lonely 
days  spent  in  reading  or  rambling  through  the  empty,  echo 
ing  rooms,  the  long  awesome  nights  when  the  winds  held 
high  carnival  without  and  the  rats  high  jinks  within.  No 
one  ever  came  to  the  house,  except  a  stout  Frenchwoman, 
who  did  our  washing  and  general  drudgery,  coming  every 
morning  and  going  every  night.  For  me,  my  position  was  a 
sinecure,  nothing  to  do,  and  treble  wages  for  doing  it,  but 
the  hardest  work  for  all,  that  I  ever  did  in  my  life. 

And  my  mistress !  Well,  the  days,  and  the  weeks,  and 
the  months  went  by,  and  she  was  as  great  a  mystery  as  ever. 
Where  she  had  come  from,  how  long  she  meant  to  remain, 
whither  she  intended  going,  were  all  sealed  secrets  to  me. 
She  never  wrote  letters,  she  never  received  any.  She  could 
not  have  been  much  more  dead  to  all  the  world  outside  our 
wooden  walls  if  she  had  been  in  her  shroud  and  coffin. 

She  spent  the  heavy,  aimless  days  sitting  mostly  at  her 
chamber  window — a  dark-draped,  slender  figure,  a  dreary, 
lovely  face,  two  great,  hopeless  eyes,  a  total  wreck  of  life. 
The  story  of  her  life,  whatever  it  had  been,  no  common  one 
be  sure,  was  ended  for  the  time ;  the  play  was  over,  the  lights 


A    WOMAN  WITH  A  SECRET.  2l 

out,  and  nothing  left  but  to  sit  and  look  at  the  curtain. 
A  woman  young  as  she  was,  of  the  wrong  sort,  of  the  silent, 
secret  sort,  a  woman  with  something  on  her  mind,  a  woman 
with  a  secret. 

Two  things  I  discovered — only  two.  One,  that  her  hus 
band  was  not  dead,  but  deserted  ;  that  she  had  run  away 
froi?  him  and  was  hiding  here,  in  horrible  dread  of  his  ever 
finding  her  out.  Secondly,  that  in  spite  of  this  running  away 
and  this  constant  terror,  she  still  loved  him,  with  a  passion 
ate  and  most  despairing  love. 

I  had  gone  into  her  room  one  night,  and  found  her  sitting 
holding  a  picture  before  her,  and  gazing  on  it  as  if  entranced. 
It  was  her  principal  occupation.  I  had  often  found  her  so 
before,  but  the  picture  itself  I  had  never  seen.  To-night, 
however,  she  called  me  to  her  in  her  abrupt  way. 

"Joan,"  she  said,  "come  here." 

She  had  been  crying,  I  could  see — silently  and  miserably. 
I  went  and  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the  picture. 

Photography  was  in  its  infancy  in  those  days — every  family 
had  not  its  picture  gallery.  This  was  a  daguerreotype — the 
portrait  of  a  young,  dashing-looking  and  rather  handsome 
man.  A  beardless  and  boyish  face,  yet  a  very  manly  one, 
looking  up  at  you  with  frankly  smiling  eyes. 

"  It  is  all  I  have  left,"  she  said,  with  tremulous  lips.  "  I 
will  never  see  him  again.  I  loved  him  and  I  have  spoiled 
his  whole  life.  It  would  have  been  better  for  him  he  had 
died  than  ever  looked  in  my  face." 

"  Indeed,"  was  my  rather  stupid  answer.  But  I  was  used 
to  her  extravagant  talk  and  not  much  affected  by  it.  "  He 
is  a  friend  of  yours,  madame  ?  " 

She  looked  at  her  picture,  and  over  her  face  there  dawned 
a  light  that  made  her  beauty  radiant. 

"  He  is  my  husband  !  "  she  answered. 

I  drew  back  and  looked  at  her — aghast,  I  must  confess. 

"  Your  husband  ! "  I  repeated.  "  Oh — was  your  husband, 
you  mean  ?  You  told  me  he  was  dead." 

"  Dead  to  me.  Oh,  Joan !  dead  to  me,  but  alive  and 
well.  Alive  and  well;  and  though  I  should  live  to  be  a 
hundred,  I  may  never  see  his  face  again.  Never  again ;  and 


22  A    WOMAN  WITH  A  SECRET. 

there  are  times  when  I  would  lay  down  my  very  life  only  to 
look  upon  him  once  more." 

"  You  love  him  and — he  has  left  you  ?  "  I  ventured. 

"  I  love  him — and  I  left  him.  I  love  him  with  all  my 
heart,  and  I  have  fled  from  him,  and  buried  myself  here  for 
fear  of  him.  I  wonder  I  don't  go  mad,  or  die.  Once  I 
thought  I  would  without  him ;  but  somehow  life  drags  on 
and  on,  and  one  is  a  coward,  and  afraid  to  end  it  one's  self. 
He  loved  me  once,  Joan — ah,  dear  Heaven,  yes  !  he  loved 
me  and  made  me  his  wife ;  and  now,  and  now,  Joan,  if  ever 
he  finds  me,  I  believe  he  will  take  my  life." 

I  looked  back  at  the  frank,  fair,  boyish  face. 

"He  take  your  life!"  I  said;  "that  bright-faced  boy! 
No,  Mrs.  Gordon,  murderers  don't  look  like  that." 

"  He  is  the  truest,  the  noblest,  the  bravest  of  men,  a  loyal 
friend  and  a  gallant  gentleman." 

"And  yet  his  wife  runs  away  from  him,  and  says  if  ever 
they  meet  he  will  take  her  life." 

She  scarcely  seemed  to  heed  me.  She  laid  her  head  on 
her  folded  arms  as  though  she  never  cared  to  lift  it  again. 

"Ah!  let  me  alone,"  she  said.  "  You  know  nothing 
about  it.  If  I  could  but  die  and  make  an  end  of  it  all ! 
Only  this,  Joan,"  she  looked  up  suddenly,  swift,  dark  terror 
in  her  eyes ;  "  I  dreamed  last  night  he  was  searching  for  me 
— that  he  was  here.  He  came  and  stood  before  me,  stem 
and  terrible,  holding  my  death-warrant  in  his  hand  !  Don't 
let  him  come  !  don't  let  any  one  come  !  If  ever  we  meet, 
I  believe  in  my  soul  he  will  kill  me." 

Was  Mrs.  Gordon  going  mad  ?  that  was  the  very  serious 
question  uppermost  in  my  thoughts  when  I  went  to  bed  that 
night,  and  for  many  nights  after.  It  was  a  very  queer  and 
uncomfortable  affair  altogether,  and  the  sooner  I  got  out 
of  it  the  better;  and  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  think  of 
tendering  my  resignation,  behold  the  climax  all  at  once 
came  of  itself. 

March,  April  and  May  had  passed — it  was  the  close  of 
June.  I  had  gone  into  the  city  one  afternoon  for  our  weekly 
store  of  groceries,  finished  my  purchases,  and,  basket  on  arm, 
was  going  home.  My  way  led  up  St.  Louis  Street;  and 


A    WOMAN  WITH  A   SECRET.  2$ 

passing  the  office  of  Mr.  Barteaux,  I  saw  him  in  his  own 
doorway,  deep  in  conversation  with  a  stranger.  A  look  at 
that  stranger,  and  with  one  great  jump  my  heart  was  in  my 
mouth.  For  it  was  the  original  of  the  picture — it  was  Mrs. 
Gordon's  husband.  "  The  hour  and  the  man  were  come  ! " 

Neither  saw  me.  I  paused  a  second  and  looked  again. 
The  same,  beyond  doubt ;  the  same,  with  a  difference — worn 
and  haggard,  set  and  stern — the  same,  yet  that  was  the  face 
of  a  frank,  happy  boy,  this  of  a  reckless,  desperate  man.  A 
straw  hat  was  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a  gray  summer  overcoat 
was  buttoned  up — a  soldier  and  a  gentleman,  that  was  evi 
dent  at  a  glance. 

I  turned  up  a  side  street  and  hastened  breathlessly  on. 
My  first  duty  was  to  my  mistress.  I  must  tell  her  that  what 
she  dreaded  had  come — that  the  husband  from  whom  she 
had  fled,  was  here.  I  walked  at  my  utmost  speed,  and  in 
half  an  hour  was  at  Saltmarsh. 

"  She  said  he  would  kill  her  ! "  I  thought,  turning  hot  and 
cold  ;  "  and  who  knows  that  he  will  not  ?  He  would  not  be 
the  first  husband  that  has  killed  a  runaway  wife." 

I  ran  through  the  rooms,  all  flurried  and  breathless,  call 
ing  out  her  name. 

She  was  not  in  any  of  them.  Of  late,  since  June  had 
come,  the  fine  weather  at  times  had  tempted  her  out.  This, 
most  unfortunately,  was  one  of  the  times.  I  knew  pretty 
well  where  to  find  her — on  the  river  bank  below  there  was 
a  strip  of  yellow  sand,  where  she  was  fond  of  walking  up  and 
down  in  the  sunshine.  She  was  sure  to  be  there  now. 

I  rushed  out,  looking  wildly  around.  Yes,  there  was  the 
tall,  soldierly  figure  in  the  straw  hat  and  summery  overcoat, 
coming  rapidly  toward  me  at  a  swinging  pace. 

I  declare  I  almost  screamed,  so  nervous  and  overwrought 
had  I  become. 

If  he  was  before  me — if  he  came  upon  her  suddenly,  the 
shock  alone  might  kill  her,  for  she  was  far  from  strong  of 
late.  I  turned  and  fled  headlong  down  the  steep  hillside 
path,  still  calling  her  name.  Yes,  there,  quite  alone,  pacing 
slowly  up  and  down  the  sandy  riverside  path,  looking  at  the 
fast-flowing  water,  Mrs.  Gordon  walked. 


24  A    WOMAN  WITH  A  SECRET. 

She  paused  in  her  slow  walk,  and  turned  to  me  in  wondei 
at  my  break-neck  descent. 

How  beautiful  she  was  !  even  in  that  supreme  moment,  I 
remember  that  was  my  first  thought. 

"For  pity's  sake,  fly!"  I  cried  out;  "fly  at  once.  He 
is  here  ! " 

She  laid  both  her  hands  suddenly  over  her  heart.  Across 
her  face  there  flashed  the  electric  light  of  a  great  and  sad 
den  joy. 

"  Who  ?  "  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Your  husband,  the  man  whose  picture  you  showed  me. 
Fly  at  once  if  you  are  afraid  of  him.  I  saw  him,  I  tell 
you  he  is  coming.  Oh,  Heaven  ! — he  is  here  !  " 

I  fell  back  in  consternation.  Yes,  he  had  followed  me ; 
he  was  coming  down  the  path,  he  was  here. 

I  turned  to  my  mistress.  Would  she  faint?  would  she 
fly  ?  Neither. 

Who  is  to  understand  men's  wives  !  Terror  was  there,  in 
that  wild,  white  face,  it  is  true,  but  over  and  above  it  all, 
such  rapture  as  I  never  before  saw  in  the  face  of  man  or 
woman.  She  loved  him  and  she  saw  him  again — all  was 
said  in  that. 

He  walked  down  the  path.  She  came  a  step  forward, 
with  that  transfigured  face,  and  held  out  to  him  both  arms 
with  an  eloquent  cry  : 

"  Gordon  !     Gordon  ! " 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   DECREE    OF   DIVORCE. 

JT  had  come.     I  could  do  no  more.     Nothing  re 
mained  for  me  but  to  retreat  into  the  background, 
and  wait  with  bated  breath  and  beating  heart  for 
this  play  of  "  powerful  domestic  interest "  to  play 
itself  out. 

He  had  descended  the  steep,  hillside  path  and  stood  on 
the  strip  of  yellow  sand,  face  to  face  with  the  wife  who  had 
deserted  him.  The  full  light  of  the  June  afternoon  fell  upon 
his  face  as  he  stood  there  before  her,  a  face  more  hollow- 
eyed  and  haggard,  more  worn,  than  it  had  even  looked  to  me 
first.  A  face  set  and  stern,  with  little  of  mercy  or  pity  in  it. 

He  waved  her  back.  Only  the  slightest  motion  of  his 
hand,  but  she  shrank  and  shivered  like  a  child  who  has  got  a 
blow. 

"  No  nearer,"  he  said  in  a  voice  as  cold  and  steady  as  the 
chill  gray  eyes  that  looked  upon  her.  "Unless  your  sense 
of  hearing  has  become  dulled  since  the  night  of  Lovell's 
death,  when  you  played  eavesdropper  so  well,  you  will  be 
able  to  hear  all  I  have  to  say,  where  you  stand.  I  will  not 
detain  you  long,  and  you  need  not  wear  that  frightened  face. 
I  am  not  going  to  kill  you — the  time  for  all  that  is  passed. 
But  let  me  tell  you  this  :  If  you  had  not  played  eavesdropper 
that  memorable  night  five  months  ago,  if  you  had  not  fled  as 
you  did,  if  I  had  found  you  before  me  when  I  returned,  you 
would  never  have  lived  to  see  the  morning.  The  greatest 
fool  that  ever  walked  the  earth  I  had  been — if  you  and  I  had 
met  that  night  I  would  have  been  a  murderer  as  well." 

All  this  he  said  in  a  slow,  self-repressed  sort  of  tone,  but 
the  deep  gray  eyes  that  watched  her  were  full  of  such  hatred 
as  no  words  of  mine  can  tell. 
2 


26  THE  DECREE   OF  DIVORCE. 

"  Spare  me.  Gordon,"  she  answered,  with  a  sobbing  cry. 

"Spare  you?"  he  repeated,  with  cold  scorn;  "have  I 
not  said  so  ?  I  would  not  lift  a  finger  to  harm  a  hair  of 
your  head,  or  to  save  your  life  if  I  saw  you  drowning  in  the 
river  yonder.  You  are  as  dead  to  me  as  though  I  had  gone 
home  and  strangled  you  that  eventful  night.  The  madness 
of  love  and  rage,  alike,  are  past  forever.  I  have  cut  you  off 
utterly  and  absolutely  from  my  life.  You  have  been  in  hiding 
here,  they  tell  me,  in  daily  dread  of  your  life  no  doubt. 
Let  us  end  all  that.  You  are  free  to  come  and  go  where 
and  how  you  will.  After  to-day  I  will  never  look  upon  your 
face  again  of  my  own  free  will,  alive  or  dead." 

She  gave  a  shrill  cry,  like  a  culprit  under  the  lash,  her 
hands  still  held  out  to  him  in  dumb  agony. 

"  I  have  not  even  come  to  Quebec  now  in  search  of  you," 
the  cold,  pitiless  voice  went  on  ;  "don't  think  it.  I  came 
to  visit  General  Forrester,  stationed  yonder  at  the  Citadel, 
before  leaving  this  accursed  Canada  forever — accursed  since 
in  it  I  met  you" 

Her  outstretched  hands  went  up,  with  a  dull  moaning 
sound,  and  covered  her  face. 

"  Would  you  care  to  know  how  I  found  you  out,  and  why  I 
came  ?  "  he  slowly  went  on.  "  Listen  :  Last  night  at  mess 
the  fellows  were  speaking  of  a  widow  lady,  a  most  myster 
ious  widow  lady,  young  and  beautiful,  so  rumor  said,  who  had 
taken  a  desolate  old  house  in  a  marsh,  and  there  shut  her 
self  up,  hidden  from  mortal  man  and  light  of  day.  Her 
name  was  Mrs.  Gordon.  Where  she  came  from,  who  she 
was,  why  she  had  come,  no  man  could  tell.  Before  the 
name  was  uttered  I  knew  it  was  you.  Knew  that  when 
you  fled  from  Toronto  you  fled  here ;  knew  that  the  lost 
woman  who  had  been  my  wife  was  found." 

Her  hands  dropped.  For  the  first  time  she  stood  upright 
before  him  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  stung,  it  would 
seem,  into  turning  at  bay  by  these  last  words. 

"  Who  had  been  your  wife ! "  she  cried,  passionately ; 
"  who  is  your  wife,  Gordon  Caryll !  Nothing,"  a  sort  of  ex 
ultation  lit  her  face  as  she  said  it,  "  nothing  but  death  can 
ever  alter  that !  " 


THE   DECREE    OF  DIVORCE.  2/ 

For  fully  a  minute  he  stood  silently  looking  at  her,  a 
smile  on  his  lips,  a  pitiless  triumph  in  his  eyes. 

"  Nothing  can  change  that  ?  "  he  repeated  ;  "  nothing  but 
death  ?  Well,  I  will  answer  that  before  we  part.  Let  me 
go  on.  I  knew  it  was  you,  this  woman  they  talked  of,  and 
I  said  to  myself:  'I  will  find  her  to-morrow;  I  will  look 
upon  her  face  once  more,  for  the  last  time,  and  I  will  see 
what  there  was,  if  I  can,  in  its  wax-doll  beauty,  its  yellow- 
black  eyes,  its  straight  nose  and  silken  hair,  to  turn  men 
into  blind,  besotted  fools.'  Take  down  your  hands,  Rosa 
mond,  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

She  had  shrank  from  him,  from  his  smile,  in  some  name 
less,  dreadful  fear,  that  made  her  cover  her  white  face  once 
more.  She  dropped  her  hands  now,  at  his  bidding,  looking 
up  with  dilated  eyes. 

"  Gordon,  have  mercy  on  me.     I  love  you  !  " 

Again  she  stretched  forth  her  hands  to  him  with  that  pit 
eous  cry.  Again  he  motioned  her  imperiously  back,  his  lips 
set,  his  eyes  pitiless,  his  face  like  stone. 

"  Stand  still ! "  he  ordered. 

She  obeyed. 

For  fully  two  minutes  this  strange  tableau  was  before  me, 
and  all  unseen,  in  my  obscure  nook,  I  stood  gazing  with  an 
interest  that  held  me  rapt  and  spell-bound.  He,  drawn  up 
to  his  full  height,  his  face  like  white  stone,  so  hard,  so  cold, 
that  chill,  half  smile  still  on  his  lips.  She,  half  cowering  be 
fore  him,  her  lovely,  colorless  face  uplifted,  her  eyes  full  of 
dreadful  terror,  her  loose,  feathery  hair  blowing  in  the  wind, 
— young,  fair,  innocent  to  see,  at  least.  So  they  stood — 
stern  young  judge,  quivering  little  criminal,  until  it  grew 
almost  too  much  even  for  my  nerves  to  endure. 

"You  are  a  beautiful  little  woman,  Rosamond,"  he  said, 
at  length;  "one  of  those  exceptional  women,  who,  like 
Ninon  de  L'Enclos,  will  be  beautiful  at  eighty.  And  that 
fair  face  of  yours  will  do  its  devil's  work,  I  don't  doubt,  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter.  To  possess  that  face  for  four  short 
months  I  have  lost  all  that  man  holds  dear — name,  honor, 
home,  friends,  fortune — all.  For  the  name  that  you  have 
borne  and  disgraced,  I  will  bear  no  longer.  I  have  sold  out 


28  THE  DECREE   OF  DIVORCE. 

— do  you  know  it  ?  my  father  has  disinherited  me — I  am  the 
laughingstock  of  all  who  ever  knew  me.  I  look  back  and 
wonder  at  my  own  infatuation.  I  loved  you — I  trusted  you. 
Oh,  God ! "  he  cried  out,  a  spasm  of  anguish  distorting  his 
face ;  "I  married  you — you  !  You  played  your  game  well, 
you  and  Lovell.  It  was  your  trade  ;  and  with  such  a  fool 
as  I,  it  was  an  easy  game  enough.  But  you  had  cause  to 
fear,  and  you  knew  it — I  say  again  you  did  well  to  fly.  I 
went  out  from  Lovell' s  death-bed  a  madman — if  I  had  found 
you  on  my  return,  by  the  light  above  us,  I  would  have  mur 
dered  you ! " 

She  shrank  back  from  him,  trembling  with  pure  physical 
terror  now,  from  head  to  foot. 

"  No  need  to  tremble — no  need  to  fear  now"  he  went  on, 
his  voice  losing  its  sudden  fury,  and  sinking  to  its  former 
cold  monotone ;  "I  have  told  you  all  that  is  past  and 
done  with.  But  before  we  part,  I  should  like  to  hear  once 
from  your  own  lips,  just  once  (not  that  I  doubt)  that  Major 
Lovell' s  story  was  true." 

Her  only  answer  was  to  cower  still  farther  away,  and 
with  a  great,  heart-wrung  sob,  to  bury  her  face  once  again 
in  her  hands. 

"  Ah,  hide  it,"  he  said  bitterly ;  "  hide  it  forever  from  the 
sight  of  man — the  fairest,  falsest  face  ever  made.  But  spea*c 
— if  such  lips  as  yours  can  speak  truth,  and  tell  me  that 
Lo veil's  story  was  true." 

"  Gordon  !  have  mercy." 

"  Was  it  true  ?  " 

"  I  loved  you,  Gordon  !  As  there  is  a  heaven  above  u&, 
I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart." 

He  half  laughed — even  in  that  moment. 

"  Your  heart — yours  /  What  witty  things  are  said  by  ac 
cident  !  Never  mind  your  heart  or  your  love.  I  know 
what  both  are  worth.  Answer  my  question.  Was  Loveii  s 
story  true.  One  word — yes  or  no." 

"  Gordon,  I  was  faithful.    Oh  !  what  shall  I  say  to  him  t 

"  Was  it  true  ?     Yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  Gordon,  I  swear — " 


THE  DECREE  OF  DIVORCE.  2g 

"Was  it  true?"  he  cried,  his  eyes  flashing  fire ;  "no  more 
words !  Yes  or  no." 

"Yes,  but—" 

"That  wfll  do.  We  won't  waste  words  about  it.  You 
would  swear  black  was  white.  I  daresay,  but  keep  your  his 
trionic  talents  for  the  New  York  stage  again — you  may  need 
them  before  long.  Let  as  get  back  to  what  you  said  a  mo 
ment  ago.  'You  are  my  wife — nothing  bat  death  can 
change  that.'  Do  me  the  favor  to  look  at  this." 

He  drew  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to 
her.  Something  in  his  face  as  he  did  so  frightened  her  as 
nothing  had  frightened  yet.  Her  hands  shook — she  strove 
to  open  the  paper  and  failed  She  looked  at  him  with  pit 
eous  eyes  and  trembling  lips. 

"I  can't,"  she  faltered;  "Gordon,  what  is  it?" 

"  It  is  a  decree  of  divorce,"  he  answered,  in  his  cold, 
sombre  voice.  "  One  week  after  LovelFs  death  and  your 
flight,  I  instituted  a  suit  for  divorce,  and  obtained  it.  Yoa 
can  read  the  details  in  that  paper,  at  yoor  leisure — it  may 
help  while  away  an  hoar.  This  is  what  has  kept  me  in 
Canada  so  long.  In  two  days  I  leave  it  forever.  Chance 
has  brought  us  together  this  once,  for  the  last  time." 

He  paused,  half  turned  away,  then  suddenly  stopped.  She 
had  made  some  kind  of  gesture,  but  it  was  not  for  that ;  she 
had  said  "  wait!"  in  a  hoarse  whisper ;  but  it  was  not  that. 
It  was  the  ghastly  change  that  had  come  over  her  face  as  he 
struck  his  last  merciless  Mow.  For  a  moment,  I  think,  it 
startled  even  him. 

"This  is  true— this  that  you  tell  me— this— <fivorce ? " 

She  spoke  the  words  in  a  husky,  breathless  sort  of  voice, 
her  face  all  distorted,  clutching  the  paper  hard. 

"  It  is  perfectly  true,"  his  chill  voice  answered.  "Read 
and  see." 

"  I  am  no  longer  your  wife  ?  " 

"You  are  no  longer  my  wife — thank  Heaven  and  the 
merciful  law  of  the  land." 

"After  this  day,  you  never  mean  to  see  JT  know  me  again  ?" 

"  1  never  mean  to  see  you  again  i)  ^  be  in  my  power, 
alive  or  dead." 


jo  THE  DECREE   OF  DIVORCE. 

"Then  hear/0*/"  She  drew  herself  upright,  her  small 
figure  seeming  to  dilate  and  grow  tall.  "  Lovell's  story 
was  true — true  I  tell  you  in  every  particular  except  this : 
that  I  married  you  for  your  rank,  and  your  name,  and  your 
wealth.  I  married  you  for  these,  it  is  true ;  but  beyond 
these,  because  I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart.  Oh,  yes, 
Gordon  Caryll !  even  such  women  as  I  am  can  love  ;  and 
in  deed,  and  thought,  from  the  hour  you  placed  this  ring 
on  my  finger,  I  was  your  true  and  loyal  wife.  I  would 
have  gone  with  you  to  beggary — I  would  have  died,  if  need 
were,  for  your  sake.  Now  I  am  divorced  and  cast  off  for 
ever,  you  say.  Well,  then  we  shall  meet  again  one  day, 
so  surely  as  we  both  live.  This  cold-blooded  divorce  I  will 
never  forgive.  Go,  Gordon  Caryll !  but  remember  this,  one 
day  or  other,  so  surely  as  we  both  stand  here,  I  will  make 
you  suffer  for  this  ! " 

He  laughed  as  he  listened — a  low,  contemptuous  laugh, 
that  would  have  goaded  any  infuriated  woman  to  madness. 

"You  do  it  very  well,  Rosamond,"  he  said;  "but  so 
many  years'  hard  practice  on  the  stage  of  the  Bowery 
Theatre  could  hardly  fail  to  tell.  For  the  rest,  it  is  rather 
wasted  on  an  unappreciative  audience  at  present.  If  I 
should  be  so  unfortunate  as  ever  to  meet  you  again,  I 
trust,  even  then,  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

He  turned  without  another  word  and  left  her,  striding 
up  the  steep  path,  and  never  once  looking  back. 

She  stood  where  he  left  her,  watching  him  out  of  sight, 
the  color  fading  from  her  face,  the  life  from  her  eyes.  So, 
standing  motionless  there,  she  saw  him  pass  from  view, 
heard  the  last  echo  of  his  footsteps  die  away.  Then  I 
came  forward,  for  the  look  on  her  face  frightened  me. 
She  turj'od  to  me  slowly,  the  fatal  paper  held  in  her  hand. 

"I  dreamed  he  came  with  my  death-warrant,"  she  said; 
"here  it  is." 

And  then  without  word  or  cry  to  warn  me,  she  went 
down  in  a  dead  faint  on  the  sands. 

How  I  brought  her  to,  how  I  got  her  home,  I  can 
never  tell.  I  did  it  somehow,  and  laid  her  on  her  bed 
as  the  June  moon  rose  and  the  stars  came  out.  Old 


THE  DECREE   OF  DIVORCE.  31 

Bettine,  the  French  charwoman,  was  still  pottering  about 
the  kitchen.  In  her  charge  I  left  my  mistress,  and  fled 
into  town  for  a  doctor.  For  she  was  very  ill — so  ill  that 
it  seemed  doubtful  whether  she  would  ever  live  to  see 
day  dawn. 

The  clocks  of  Quebec,  high  up  in  steeples,  silvered  by 
the  quiet  summer  moonlight,  were  chiming  eleven  as  our 
first  visitor  entered  Saltmarsh — the  doctor. 

And  when  the  lovely  June  morning  dawned,  and  the 
swallows  twittered  in  the  eaves,  Gordon  Caryll's  child  lay 
in  my  arms,  and  Gordon  Caryll's  divorced  wife  lay  white 
and  still,  with  Life  and  Death  fighting  their  sharp  battle 
above  her  pillow. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A   STRANGE    ENDING. 

IFE  won.  Days  passed,  two  weeks  went  by,  and 
the  struggle  was  at  an  end.  Pale  and  shadowy  that 
marvellously  fair  face  lay  among  the  pillows,  but  all 
doubt  was  at  an  end.  Mrs.  Gordon  would  live. 

Saltmarsh  was  a  deserted  house  no  longer.  A  ponderous 
nurse  had  come  from  Quebec,  the  doctor  was  a  daily  visitor, 
and  old  Bettine  spent  her  nights  as  well  as  her  days  with  us. 
There  was  nothing  to  fear  any  more  ;  the  man  she  had 
longed  for  and  feared  had  come  and  gone,  to  come  no  more 
forever.  The  baby  fell  almost  entirely  to  me — a  charge  as 
pleasant  as  novel,  for  I  must  own,  spinster  that  I  am,  to  a 
tender  weakness  for  babies.  It  lay  in  my  arms  all  day;  it 
slept  in  its  crib  by  my  bedside  at  night. 

"The  smallest  mite  of  a  baby  /ever  see,"  observed  Mrs. 
Watters,  the  fat  nurse  ;  "and  I've  seen  a  regiment  of  'em, 
little  and  big,  in  my  day.  I  should  say  now  it  wouldn't 
weigh  five  pounds." 

It  was  small.  A  tiny,  black-haired,  black-eyed  speck,  its 
pink  dot  of  a  face  looking  weird,  lit  by  those  black,  blinking 
eyes. 

One  thing  was  strange — was  unnatural.  From  its  birth 
its  mother  had  never  seen  it,  never  asked  to  see  it.  One 
evening,  when  Bettine  had  called  nurse  down  to  supper,  and 
I  sat  watching  in  her  room,  she  spoke  of  it  for  the  first  time. 

It  was  a  lovely  July  night,  under  the  brilliant  summer 
moon,  the  St.  Lawrence  ran  between  its  green  slopes  like  a 
belt  of  silver  light.  The  white,  misty  moonlight  filled  the 
chamber,  the  lamp  had  not  yet  been  lit,  and  the  pale  glory 
illumined  the  face,  whiter  than  the  lace  and  linen  against 
which  it  lay.  She  sat  partly  up  in  bed,  propped  by  pillows, 


A  STRANGE   ENDING. 


33 


gazing  with  dark,  sombre  eyes  out  at  that  radiance  in 
Heaven  and  on  earth — that  glory  from  the  skies  upon  river 
and  shore.  For  more  than  an  hour  she  had  been  sitting 
motionless,  her  dark,  brooding  eyes  never  leaving  the  fairy 
scene,  as  though  she  saw  her  own  future  life  over  there  be 
yond  that  shining  river.  In  the  dim  distance,  baby  lay  in  its 
crib  fast  asleep ;  deepest  silence  reigned  within  and  without. 
That  silence  was  suddenly  and  sharply  broken  by  the  shrilly, 
feeble  wail  of  the  child  as  it  awoke.  As  I  rose  and  crossed 
the  room  to  take  it,  she  spoke :  "  Joan,  bring  it  here." 

"  H'm  !  high  time  for  you  to  say  it,"  1  thought,  but  in  si 
lence  I  obeyed.  There  had  been  something  revolting  to 
me  in  her  utter  want  of  mother-love ;  in  her  unnatural  indif 
ference  ;  I  carried  it  to  the  bedside  and  stooped  to  place  it 
beside  her. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  with  a  quick,  petulant  gesture  of  re 
pulsion  ;  "not  there;  I  don't  want  it.  I  always  hated  ba 
bies.  I  only  want  to  look  at  it." 

"  Shall  I  bring  in  the  lamp  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No  ;  the  moonlight  will  do.  What  a  dot  of  a  baby ! 
Joan,  who  is  it  like  ?  " 

"It  has  your  eyes,"  I  answered  ;  "  beyond  that  it  is  im 
possible  to  tell.  Mrs.  Walters  says,  though,  it  is  your  very 
'moral.'  It  is  certainly  the  tiniest  baby  that  ever  was  born." 

"  My  very  moral,"  she  repeated,  with  a  feeble  laugh.  "  I 
hope  so  !  I  hope  it  may  be  like  me.  I  hope  it  may  never 
resemble  him,  in  any  way.  I  hope  it  may  live  to  help 
avenge  its  mother  yet !  " 

I  was  silent — shocked  and  scandalized  beyond  power  of 
replying.  Here  was  a  Christian  woman  and  mother,  just 
saved  from  death,  talking  like  some  heathen,  of  revenge  ! 

"  Is  it  a  girl  or  a  boy  ?  "  she  inquired  next,  after  a  pause. 

"  Girl,"  I  answered,  shortly.     "  It  is  time  you  asked." 

She  glanced  at  me  in  surprise,  but  in  no  displeasure. 

"Why  should  I  ask  ?  It  didn't  matter  much.  A  girl !  If 
it  had  only  been  a  boy ;  and  yet,  who  can  tell,  if  she  is  like 
me,  and  is  pretty,  she  may  do  great  things  yet.  She  may 
help  me.  That  will  do,  Joan.  Take  it  away." 

She  turned  her  face  from  the  light,  and  lay  for  a  long 
2* 


34 


A   STRANGE  ENDING. 


time  still,  brooding  over  her  own  thoughts—  dark  and  wicked 
thoughts  I  well  knew.  Whoever  or  whatever  this  Mrs.  Gor 
don  might  be,  she  was  not  a  proper  or  virtuous  woman, 
that  seemed  pretty  clear  —a  wife  whose  husband  had  been 
forced  to  put  her  away — a  mother  who  only  looked  forward 
to  the  future  of  her  child  as  an  instrument  of  vengeance 
on  its  father.  There  are  some  services  that  no  wages  can 
repay — to  my  mind  this  was  one.  The  moment  Mrs.  Gor 
don  was  well  enough  to  be  left,  that  moment  I  would  leave 
her. 

"  And  what  will  become  of  you  with  such  a  mother, 
Providence  only  knows,''  I  apostrophized  the  little  one  on 
my  lap.  "  You  poor,  little,  spectral,  black-eyed  mite  !  I 
wish  you  belonged  to  me  altogether." 

From  that  evening  Mrs.  Gordon  rallied,  and  asserted  her 
power  on.ce  more  as  mistress  of  the  house.  Her  first  act 
of  sovereignty  was  to  dismiss  the  nurse. 

"  All  danger  is  over,  the  doctor  tells  me,"  she  said  to 
Mrs.  Watters  a  few  days  after.  "  Joan  Kennedy  can  take 
care  of  me  now.  I  shall  not  require  you  any  more.  Joan, 
pay  Mrs.  Watters  her  due.  She  leaves  to-night." 

Mrs.  Watters  left.  Next  morning  Mrs.  Gordon  asserted 
herself  still  further — she  insisted  upon  being  dressed  and 
allowed  to  sit  up.  She  had  her  way,  of  course,  and  I  wish 
I  could  tell  you  how  fair  and  youthful  and  lovely  she  looked. 
Youthful !  I  declare,  whatever  her  age  really  was,  she  did 
not  look  a  day  over  sixteen.  But  there  was  that  in  her  quick, 
black  eyes,  in  her  colorless  face,  in  those  latter  days,  not 
pleasant  to  see — something  I  could  not  define,  and  that 
confirmed  me  in  my  resolution  to  leave  her  very  soon.  Of 
her  child,  from  the  evening  of  which  I  have  spoken,  she 
took  not  the  slightest  notice.  I  truly  believe  she  never 
once  looked  at  it  again;  when  it  cried  she  had  it  impatiently 
removed  out  of  hearing.  She  sat  thinking — thinking  stead 
fastly,  with  bent  brows  and  compressed  lips,  of  what — who 
could  tell  ? 

"  I'll  give  her  warning  to-morrow,"  I  said  resolutely  to 
myself;  "my  month  is  up  in  a  week.  I'll  never  live 
another  with  you,  my  pretty,  mysterious  little  mistress." 


A   STRANGE  ENDING.  35 

Her  eyes  lifted  suddenly,  and  fixed  themselves  on  rry  face 
as  I  thought  it.  Did  she  divine  my  very  thoughts  ?  The 
faint  smile  that  was  on  her  lips  almost  made  me  think  so. 

"Joan,"  she  said,  in  her  pretty,  imperious  way,  "come 
here,  child  ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  You  have  been  a  good 
and  faithful  companion  in  all  these  dreary,  miserable  months, 
to  a  most  miserable  and  lonely  woman.  Let  me  thank  you 
now  while  I  think  of  it,  and  before  we  say  good-by." 

"  Good-by ! "  I  repeated,  completely  taken  aback. 
"  Then  you  are  going  away?" 

"  Going  away,  Joan ;  high  time,  is  it.  not  ?  All  is  over 
now — there  is  nothing  to  fear  or  hope  any  more.  One  chap 
ter  of  my  life  is  read  and  done  with  forever.  The  day  after 
to-morrow  I  go  out  into  the  world  once  more,  to  begin  all 
over  again.  Up  to  the  present  my  life  has  been  a  most 
miserable  failure — all  but  four  short  months."  She  paused 
suddenly ;  the  dreary,  lovely  face  lit  up  with  a  sort  of  rapture. 
"  All  but  four  short  months — oh,  let  me  always  except  that— 
when  he  made  me  his  wife,  and  I  was  happy,  happy,  happy  ! 
Joan,  if  I  had  died  three  weeks  ago  when  that  was  born,  you 
might  have  had  engraven  on  my  tombstone  the  epitaph  that 
was  once  inscribed  over  another  lost  woman  ;  '  1  have  been 
most  happy — and  most  miserable.'  " 

I  listened  silently,  touched,  in  spite  of  myself,  by  the  un 
speakable  pathos  of  her  look  and  tone. 

"  All  that  is  over  and  done  with,"  she  said,  after  a  little. 
"  I  am  not  to  die,  it  seems.  I  am  going  to  begin  my  life,  as 
I  say,  all  over  again.  Nothing  that  befalls  me  in  the  future 
can  be  any  worse  than  what  lies  behind.  It  does  not  fall 
to  the  lot  of  all  women  to  be  divorced  wives  at  the  age  of 
eighteen." 

She  laughed  drearily.  She  sat  by  the  window  in  her  fa 
vorite  easy-chair,  looking  out  while  she  talked,  with  the  rosy 
after-glow  of  the  sunset  fading  away  beyond  the  feadiery 
tamarac  trees  and  the  low  Canadian  hills. 

"  I  feel  something  as  a  felon  must,"  she  dreamily  went 
on,  half  to  herself,  half  to  me,  "  who  has  served  out  his  sen 
tence  and  whose  order  of  release  has  come,  almost  afraid  to 
face  the  world  I  have  left  so  long.  I  did  not  come  to  this 


36  A   STRANGE  ENDING. 

house  a  very  good  woman,  Joan — that,  I  suppose,  you  know  ; 
but  I  quit  it  a  thousand  times  worse.  I  came  here  with  a 
human  heart,  at  least,  a  heart  that  could  love  and  feel  re 
morse  ;  but  love  and  remorse  are  at  an  end.  I  told  him  I 
loved  him  and  had  been  faithful  to  him,  and  he  laughed  in 
my  face.  Women  can  forgive  a  great  deal,  but  they  do 
not  forgive  that.  If  he  had  only  left  me— if  he  had  not 
got  that  divorce,  I  would  never  have  troubled  him — • 
never,  I  swear.  I  would  have  gone  away  and  loved  him, 
and  been  faithful  to  him  to  the  end.  Now — now — "  she 
paused,  her  hands  clenched,  her  yellow  eyes  gleaming  cat 
like  in  the  dusk.  "  Now,  I  will  pay  him  back,  sooner  or 
later,  if  I  lose  my  life  for  it.  I  will  be  revenged — that  I 
swear." 

I  shrank  away  from  her,  from  the  sight  of  her  wicked 
face,  from  the  hearing  of  her  wicked  words, — the  horror  I 
felt,  showing,  I  suppose,  in  my  face. 

"  It  all  sounds  very  horrible,  very  shocking,  does  it 
not?"  she  asked,  bitterly.  "You  are  one  of  the  pious 
and  proper  sort,  my  good  Joan,  who  walk  stiffly  along 
the  smooth-beaten  path  of  propriety,  from  your  cradle  to 
your  grave.  Well,  I  won't  shock  you  much  longer,  let  that 
be  your  comfort.  The  day  after  to-morrow  I  go,  and  as  a 
souvenir  I  mean  to  leave  that  behind  me." 

She  pointed  coolly  to  the  crib  in  the  corner. 

"  You — you  mean  to  leave  the  baby  ?  "   I  gasped. 

"  I — I  mean  to  leave  the  baby,"  she  answered,  with  a 
half  laugh,  parodying  my  tone  of  consternation;  "you 
didn't  suppose  I  meant  to  take  it  with  me,  did  you  ?  I 
start  in  two  days  to  begin  a  new  life,  as  a  perfectly  proper 
young  lady — young  lady,  you  understand,  Joan  ?  and  you 
may  be  very  sure  I  shall  carry  no  such  land-mark  with  me 
as  that  of  the  old  one.  Yes,  Joan,  I  shall  leave  the  baby 
with  you,  if  you  will  keep  it,  with  Mrs.  Waters  if  you  will 
not." 

"  Oh,  I  will  keep  the  baby  and  welcome,"  I  said  ;  "  poor 
'ittle  soul  !"  and  as  it  lay  in  its  sleep,  so  small  and  helpless, 
so  worse  than  orphaned  at  its  very  birth,  I  stooped  and 
kissed  it,  with  teirs  in  my  eyes. 


A    STRANGE  ENDING.  37 

Vou  are  a  good  woman,  Joan,"  she  said,  more  softly ; 
-'  I  wish — yes,  with  all  my  soul,  I  wish  I  were  like  you. 
But  it  is  late  in  the  day  for  wishing — what  is  done  is  done. 
You  will  keep  the  child?" 

"  I  will  keep  the  child." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  It  will  be  well  with  you.  One  day 
or  other  I  will  come  and  claim  it.  Don't  let  it  die,  Joan  ; 
it  has  its  work  to  do  in  the  world,  and  must  do  it.  I  will 
pay  you,  of  course,  and  well.  The  money  1  had  with  me 
when  I  came  here  is  almost  gone,  but  out  yonder,  beyond 
your  Canadian  woods  and  river,  there  is  always  more  for 
busy  brains  and  hands.  The  furniture  of  these  rooms  I 
leave  with  you  to  sell  or  keep,  as  you  see  fit.  Wherever  I 
may  be,  I  will  give  you  an  address,  whence  letters  will 
reach  me." 

"  And  you  will  never  return — never  come  to  see  your 
child  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Never,  Joan, — until  I  come  to  claim  it  for  good.  Why 
should  I?  I  don't  care  for  it — not  a  straw — in  the  way 
you  mean.  One  day,  if  we  both  live,  I  will  claim  it ;  one 
day  its  father  shall  learn,  to  his  cost  and  his  sorrow,  that  he 
has  a  child." 

That  evil  light  flashed  up  into  her  great  eyes  for  an  in 
stant,  then  slowly  died  out :  but  she  spoke  no  more — 
her  folded  hands  lay  idly  on  her  lap,  her  moody  gaze 
turned  upon  the  rapidly  darkening  river  and  hills.  The 
rose  light  had  all  faded  away — the  gray,  creeping,  July 
twilight  was  shrouding  all  things  in  a  sombre  haze.  The 
baby  awoke  and  cried ;  I  had  its  bottle  ready — I  lit  the 
lamp  and  lifted  it.  As  it  lay  in  my  lap,  placidly  pulling  at 
its  feeding-bottle,  its  big  black  eyes  fixed  vacantly  upon  the 
ceiling,  its  mother  turned  from  the  window  and  stared  at  it 
silently. 

With  its  little  white  face,  and  large  black  eyes,  and  pro 
fusion  of  long  black  hair,  it  looked  more  like  some  elfish 
changeling  in  a  fairy  tale  than  a  healthy  human  child. 

"  It's  a  hideous  little  object,"  was  Mrs.  Gordon's  motherly 
remark,  after  that  prolonged  stare;  "but  ugly  babies  they 
say  sometimes  grow  up  pretty.  I  want  it  to  be  pretty — 


38  A   STRANGE  ENDING. 

It  must  be  pretty.  Will  it,  do  you  think,  Joan?  Will  it 
really  look  like  me  ?" 

"  I  think  so,  madame — very  like  you.  More's  the  pity," 
I  added,  under  my  breath. 

"Ah!"  still  thoughtfully  staring  at  it,  "is  there  any 
birthmark  ?  The  proverbial  strawberry  on  the  arm,  or  mole 
on  the  neck,  you  know  ?  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  It  has  no  mark  of  any  kind,  from  head  to  foot." 

"  What  a  pity ;  we  must  give  it  one,  then.  Art  must 
supply  the  deficiencies  of  nature.  It  shall  be  done  to 
morrow." 

"  What  must  be  done?  Mrs.  Gordon,  you  don't  surely 
mean — " 

"  I  mean  to  mark  that  child  so  that  I  shall  know  it  again, 
fifty  years  from  now,  if  need  be.  Don't  look  so  horrified, 
Joan, — 1  won't  do  anything  very  dreadful.  One  marks  one's 
pocket-handkerchiefs — why  not  one's  babies?  You  may 
die;  she  may  grow  up  and  run  away — oh,  yes,  she  may! 
If  she  takes  after  her  mother,  you  won't  find  it  a  bed  of 
roses  bringing  her  up.  We  may  cross  paths  and  never 
know  each  other.  I  want  to  guard  against  that  possibility. 
I  want  to  know  my  daughter  when  we  meet." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  madame,  what  is  it  you  intend  to  do?" 

"You  have  seen  tattooing,  Joan,  done  in  India  ink? 
Yes.  Well,  that  is  what  I  mean.  I  shall  mark  her  initials 
on  her  arm  to-morrow,  exactly  as  I  mark  them  on  my 
handkerchief,  and  you  shall  help  me." 

"No,  madame,"  I  cried  out  in  horror,  "  I  will  not.  Oh, 
you  poor  little  helpless  babe  !  Madame  !  I  beg  of  you — 
don't  do  this  cruel  thing." 

"Cruel?  Silly  girl!  I  shall  give  it  a  sleeping  cordial, 
and  it  will  feel  nothing.  So  you  will  not  help  me  ?" 

"  Most  assuredly  I  will  not." 

"  Very  well — Bettine  will.  And  lest  your  tender  feelings 
should  be  lacerated  by  being  in  the  house,  you  may  go  and 
pay  your  mother  and  sister  a  visit.  By  the  by,  you  don't 
ask  me  what  its  name  is  to  be,  Joan." 

"  As  I  am  to  keep  it,  though,  supposing  you  don't  kill  it 
to-morrow,  I  shall  be  glad  to  know,  Mrs.  Gordon." 


A   STRANGE  END  NG.  35 

"  I  don't  mean  to  kill  it — never  fear;  I  don't  want  it  to 
die-  If  it  had  been  a  boy,  I  always  meant — in  the  days 
that  are  gone,  mind  you — to  have  called  it  for  its  father." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  turned  her  face  far  away. 
On  this  point,  even  she  could  feel  yet. 

"  It  is  a  girl,  unluckily,"  she  went  on  again,  steadily, 
"but  I  will  still  call  it  for  him.  Gordon  Caryll — a  pretty 
name,  is  it  not,  Joan  ?  an  odd  one  too,  for  a  girl.  Until  I 
claim  it,  however,  and  the  proper  time  comes,  we  will  sink 
the  Caryll,  and  call  it  Kennedy.  Kennedy's  a  good  old 
Scotch,  respectable  name — Gordon  Kennedy  will  do.  As 
I  said,  to-morrow  I  will  mark  the  initials  '  G.  C. '  upon  its 
arm ;  and  whatever  happens,  years  and  years  from  now,  if 
my  daughter  and  I  ever  meet,  I  shall  know  her  always,  and 
in  all  places,  by  the  mark  on  her  arm." 

I  could  do  nothing.  My  heart  sickened  and  revolted 
against  this  cruelty,  but  she  was  mother  and  mistress,  and 
could  do  as  she  pleased.  I  would  not  stay  to  see  the  tor 
ture  ;  Bettine  might  help  her  or  not,  as  she  pleased ;  I 
would  go. 

Next  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast,  I  quitted  the 
house,  and  spent  the  day  at  mother's.  In  the  gray  of 
the  summer  evening  I  returned,  to  find  the  deed  done,  the 
babe  drugged  and  still  asleep,  lying  in  its  crib,  the  arm 
bound  up,  Bettine  excited,  Mrs.  Gordon  composed  and 
cool. 

"  Did  it  cry  ?  "  I  asked,  kissing  the  pale  little  face. 

"  Ah,  but  yes,  mademoiselle ! "  Bettine  cried,  in  her 
shrill,  high  French  voice ;  "  cried  fit  to  break  the  heart, 
until  madame  double  drugged  it,  and  it  lay  still.  The  arm 
— the  poor  infant — will  be  sore  and  inflamed  for  many  a 
day  to  come.  It  is  a  heart  of  stone.  Mam'selle  Jeanne — 
the  pretty  little  madame." 

That  was  our  last  evening  in  Salt  marsh — a  long,  quiet, 
lonesome  evening  enough.  I  distrusted  her — in  some  way 
I  feared  and  disliked  her  ;  and  yet  I  felt  a  strange  sort  of 
compassion  for  the  quiet  little  creature,  sitting  there  so 
utterly  desolated  in  her  youth  and  beauty — wrecked  and 
adrift  on  the  world  at  eighteen. 


4Q  A  STRANGE  ENDING. 

She  sat  in  her  old  place  by  the  window  so  still — so  still 
— the  fair  face  gleaming  like  marble  in  the  dusk,  the  dark, 
mournful  eyes  fixed  on  the  creeping  darkness  shrouding  the 
fair  Canadian  river  and  landscape.  It  all  ended  to-night — 
the  peace,  the  safety,  dreary  though  it  may  have  been — and 
to-morrow  she  must  go  forth  out  into  the  great,  pitiless  world, 
with  only  her  beautiful  face  and  her  wicked  heart  to  make 
her  way.  What  dark  story  lay  behind  her  ?  I  wondered  ; 
and  was  this  fair,  forsaken  wife  most  to  be  pitied  or  blamed  ? 

The  hours  of  the  evening  crept  on — ten,  eleven ;  she 
never  stirred.  And  when,  sometime  before  midnight,  I 
crept  away  with  my  baby  to  my  room,  the  motionless  little 
figure  was  there  at  the  window  still. 

Next  morning  dawned  cloudless  and  fair.  Bettine  was  up 
betimes  to  prepare  breakfast — for  the  last  time  I  served  my 
little  mistress.  She  was  dead  silent  through  it  all,  and  ate 
it  in  her  travelling  suit  of  dark  gray,  all  ready  to  depart. 
There  was  a  train  at  nine ;  it  was  half-past  eight  now,  and 
the  cabriolet  ordered  from  Quebec  was  at  the  door.  She 
stooped  for  a  moment  over  her  babe  ;  but  even  in  this  part 
ing  hour  she  never  kissed  it,  and  my  heart  hardened  against 
her  once  more. 

"  It  is  as  Bettine  says,"  I  thought ;  "  she  has  the  face  of 
an  angel  and  the  heart  of  a  stone." 

Even  as  I  thought  it,  she  arose  and  looked  at  me — that 
charming  smile  upon  her  charming  face,  that  had  bewitched 
me  against  my  will  the  very  first  time  we  met,  that  bewitched 
me  out  of  my  hot  anger  once  again.  She  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  Good-by,  my  solemn  Joan.  Don't  think  too  badly  of 
me  when  I  am  gone — a  poor  little  woman  with  whom  life 
has  gone  hard.  You  are  a  good  girl,  and  I  shall  always  keep 
a  grateful  remembrance  of  you  in  my  none  too  tender  heart. 
Take  good  care  of  my  baby — you  shall  be  amply  rewarded. 
I  may  come  back  years  from  now  to  look  at  it — who  knows  ? 
At  all  events  you  will  hear  from  me  monthly.  And,  if  we 
never  meet  again,  let  me  thank  you  once  more  for  your 
faithful  and  patient  companionship  all  these  months." 

They  were  the  last  words   she  ever  spoke  in  Saltmarsh 


A   STRANGE  ENDING.  4! 

In  the  yellow  sunshine  of  the  soft  summer  day  Mrs.  Gordon 
passed  out  of  the  House  to  Let,  and  out  of  my  life  forever. 
I  watched  her  enter  the  cab,  caught  one  last  glimpse  of  a 
pale,  lovely  face,  of  a  little  gloved  hand  waving  from  the 
window,  then  the  driver  cracked  his  whip,  and  they  were 
whirling  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust  to  where  quaint,  gray,  silent 
old  Quebec  slept  in  morning  quiet,  the  golden  sunshine 
flooding  its  steep  streets,  its  tin  roofs,  its  lofty  spires,  its  high 
stone  walls.  Mrs.  Gordon  was  gone. 

Before  nightfall  I  had  taken  ^the  baby  home  and  dismissed 
Bettine.  Part  of  the  furniture  I  kept,  part  I  sent  into  Que 
bec  and  sold.  Late  in  the  evening  I  carried  the  key  to  Mr. 
Barteaux,  with  his  rent,  and  on  my  return  my  own  hands 
replaced  the  placard  over  the  gate.  Saltmarsh  was  once 
more  a  "  House  to  Let." 

She  had  come  among  us  a  mystery — she  left  us  a  greater 
mystery  still.  I  write  this  record  for  the  child's  sake — one 
day  it  may  need  it.  I  feel  that  the  story  I  have  told  does 
not  end  here,  that  it  is  but  the  prelude  to  what  is  to  come. 
So  surely  as  that  woman  and  this  child  live  and  meet,  trouble 
— sad  and  deep  trouble  to  that  man  Gordon  Caryll — will 
come  of  it.  I  say  again  I  write  this  for  the  child's  sake. 
One  day,  eve^n  what  I  have  set  down  here  may  be  of  use  to 
her.  If  I  die  I  will  placo  it  in  safe  hands,  to  be  given  to 
her,  and  so  I  3  gn  myself 

JOAN  KENNEDY. 


CHAPTER  V. 

AT    CARYLLYNNE. 

]ANY  mil's  away,  many  miles  of  land,  many  leagues 
of  sea,  far  beyond  that  "  city  set  on  the  hill,"  Que 
bec,  far  away  in  fair  England,  lay  the  broad  do 
main    of    Caryl lynne,    Gordon    Caryll's   ancestral 
home. 

It  lay  in  one  of  the  brightest,  sunniest  of  the  sunny  sea 
side  shires,  a  fair  and  stately  inheritance,  stretching  away 
for  miles  of  woodland  and  meadowland,  to  the  wide  sea, 
sparkling  in  the  late  August  sunshine,  as  if  sown  with  stars. 

Under  a  massive  Norman  arch,  between  lofty  iron  gates, 
you  went  up  a  sweep  of  broad  drive,  with  a  waving  sea  of 
many-colored  foliage  on  either  hand,  slim,  silver-stemmed 
birches,  copper  beeches  with  leaves  like  blood-red  rubies 
sombre  pines,  hoary  oaks,  graceful  elms,  and  whole  rows  of 
prim  poplars,  those  "  old  maids  of  the  wood."  Far  away 
this  brilliant  forest  of  Caryllynne  stretched  to  the  emerald 
cliffs  above  the  bright  summer  sea,  to  the  little  village  nest 
ling  between  those  green  cliffs,  a  village  which  for  two  cen 
turies  had  called  the  Squire  of  Caryllynne,  lord. 

You  went  up  this  noble  avenue  for  a  mile  or  more  past 
the  picturesque  Swiss  cottage  that  did  duty  as  a  gate  lodge, 
past  green  and  golden  slopes  of  sward,  past  parterres  bright 
with  gorgeous  autumnal  flowers,  to  the  Manor  house  itself, 
an  irregular  structure  of  gray  stone,  turreted  and  many-ga 
bled  and  much  ivy-grown.  There  was  a  stately  portico  en 
trance,  a  flight  of  shallow-  stone  steps,  and  two  couch- 
ant  stone  dogs,  with  the  ancient  motto,  "Cave  canim"  It 
was  a  very  old  house,  one  portion  as  old  as  the  reign  of  the 
greatf.y-niarried-man,  Henry  the  Eighth.  A  gift,  indeed, 
from  his  Most  Christian  Majesty  to  Sir  Jasper  Caryll,  Knight, 


AT    CARYLLYNNE. 


43 


and  cousin  of  Katherine  Parr,  on  the  happy  occasion  of 
his  last  marriage. 

Sir  Jasper  Caryll,  Kt.,  had  been  sleeping  beneath  the 
chancel  of  Roxhaven  Church  for  three  hundred  odd  years, 
with  a  brass  tablet  above  him  recording  his  virtues ;  and 
many  Caryll s  had  been  born  and  married,  and  had  died, 
within  those  gray  stone  walls  since.  The  old,  old  business 
of  life,  "  Hatching,  Matching,  and  Dispatching,"  had  gone 
on  and  on  within  those  antique  chambers ;  and  Mistress 
Marian  Caryll,  widow  of  the  late  Godfrey  Caryll,  reigned 
now  in  the  Manor  alone. 

The  old  house  had  been  modernized.  Plate-glass  win 
dows,  a  tessellated  hall,  velvet-carpeted  stairways,  conserva 
tories  gay  with  flowers,  these  made  the  ancient  dwelling 
bright.  Flowers,  indeed,  were  everywhere,  in  gilded  vases 
in  half  a  hundred  nooks,  in  swinging  baskets  from  the  ceil 
ings,  and  over  all  the  amber  August  sunshine  slanting  like 
golden  rain. 

The  last  light  of  the  brilliant  autumn  day  was  falling  softly 
over  sea  and  woodland,  meadow  and  copse  ;  the  western 
windows  of  the  Manor,  facing  seaward,  glinted  through  the 
trees  like  sparks  of  fire.  The  sweet,  tremulous  hush  of 
eventide  lay  over  the  land,  as  through  the  park  gates  a  pony 
phaeton  dashed  up  the  long,  tree-shaded  drive.  Two  black 
high-steppers,  a  dainty  little  basket  carriage,  and  a  lady 
sitting  very  erect  and  upright,  driving  with  a  strong,  firm 
hand — a  lady  in  sweeping  crapes  and  sables — in  widow's 
weed? — the  mistress  of  this  fair  domain. 

A  groom  came  forward  to  hold  the  horses.  As  she  flung 
him  the  reins  and  stepped  out  you  saw  that  Mrs.  Caryll  was 
a  very  tall  and  stately  lady,  bearing  her  forty  years  of  life 
well.  A  tall,  pale,  rather  cold,  rather  stern,  rather  haughty 
lady,  handsomer  perhaps  in  her  stately  middle  age  than  she 
could  ever  have  been  in  youth. 

"  I  have  driven  the  ponies  very  fast  from  Dynely  Abbey, 
Morgan,"  she  said  to  the  groom  ;  "see  that  they  are  slowly 
exercised  and  well  rubbed  down.  Has  the  post  arrived  ?  " 

The  man  made  a  sort  of  half  military  salute,  as  to  his  com 
manding  officer. 


44  AT   CARYLLYNNE. 

"Post  came  'alf  an  hour  ago,  ma'am.  I'll  attend  to  the 
ponies,  ma'am,  all  right." 

Mrs.  Carvll  passed  on  with  a  slow  and  measured  sort  of 
tread  up  tho  stone  steps,  past  the  great  couchant  dogs,  along 
the  vast  domed  hall,  hung  with  suits  of  mail  and  antlered 
heads,  up  the  wide  stairway  and  into  her  own  rooms.  The 
rose  light  of  the  sunset  filled  those  elegantly  appointed 
apartments,  and  lying  upon  an  inlaid  table  the  mistress  of 
the  Manor  saw  what  she  looked  for — a  sealed  letter.  Her 
heart  gave  a  bound,  cold  and  well  disciplined  as  it  was,  but 
(it  was  characteristic  of  the  woman)  before  taking  it  up,  she 
slowly  laid  aside  her  bonnet  and  veil,  drew  off  her  gloves, 
and  then  deliberately  lifted  it.  A  moment  she  paused  to 
glance  at  the  free  flowing  writing  she  knew  so  well,  then  she 
opened  and  read : 

LONDON,  August  2,$th,  18— . 

MY  DEAREST  MOTHER  : — I  have  arrived  but  this  moment. 
By  the  first  train  I  leave  for  home.  I  write  this  simply  to 
announce  my  coming.  I  will  be  with  you  almost  as  soon  as 
my  note.  I  know  that  in  spite  of  all  you  will  grant  me  this 
last  interview  at  least. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

GORDON  CARYLL. 

She  crushed  the  brief  letter  in  her  strong  white  hand. 
Her  fixedly  pale  face,  even  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset,  seemed 
to  grow  paler,  her  firm  lips  set  themselves  in  one  tight  un 
pleasant  line. 

"  *  My  dearest  mother  ! '  '  Your  affectionate  son,'  "  she 
said,  bitterly,  looking  at  the  letter.  "  Yes,  I  will  see  him — 
he  is  right — for  the  last  time.  After  to-night  I  shall  be  as 
though  I  never  had  a  child." 

She  folded  the  letter,  laid  it  aside  methodically  in  a  drawer 
with  many  others.  Slow,  methodical  habits  had  become 
second  nature  to  Mrs.  Caryll.  "Yes,"  she  thought,  "I  will 
see  him  once  more — once  more.  Whatever  he  may  have  to 
say  in  his  own  defence  I  will  hear.  To  him  and  to  all  man 
kind  I  trust  I  shall  always  do  my  duty.  But  come  what  may, 
after  to-night  I  will  never  see  him  again." 


AT  CARYLLYNNE.  45 

She  looked  at  her  watch — the  train  that  would  possibly 
bring  him  was  due  even  now.  In  a  little  time  he  would  be 
with  her.  For  two  years  she  had  not  seen  him — he  had 
been  her  darling,  the  treasure  of  her  heart,  the  apple  of  her 
eye.  the  "  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  was  a  widow." 
Her  whole  soul  cried  out  for  him,  and  she  stood  here,  and 
crushed  down  every  voice  of  nature,  and  calmly  resolved 
after  this  once  to  see  him  no  more  forever. 

She  walked  across  the  room,  and  paused  before  the  chim 
ney-piece.  Two  pictures  hung  above  it — the  only  two  this 
room  contained — two  portraits.  One,  the  one  at  which  she 
looked,  was  the  portrait  of  her  husband,  painted  twenty 
years  ago,  in  the  gallant  and  golden  days  of  his  youth,  a 
present  to  his  bride.  A  handsome  face ;  the  Carylls  had 
ever  been  handsome  men ;  and  this  proud,  self-contained 
woman  had  loved  her  husband  with  a  great  and  deathless 
love.  Now,  he  too  lay  in  Roxhaven  church  ;  only  a  month 
ago  they  had  laid  him  there,  glad  to  escape  by  death  the  shame 
brought  upon  him  by  an  only  son. 

"  There  are  some  things  that  Heaven  itself  will  not  ask  us 
to  forgive,"  was  her  thought — "  this  is  one  of  them." 

Beneath  this  portrait  hung  the  other,  a  smaller  one,  of  her 
son.  Two  years  ago  that  had  been  painted,  on  the  eve  of 
his  departure  for  Canada  with  his  regiment.  The  frank  fair 
face  of  the  lad  of  twenty,  gray-eyed  and  yellow-haired,  smiled 
at  her  from  the  canvas.  With  a  resolute  hand  she  took  it 
down,  and  turned  it  with  the  face  to  the  wall.  A  little  thing 
again,  but  it  told  how  small  the  mercy  Gordon  Caryll  might 
expect  when  he  stood  before  his  mother. 

It  had  grown  dark — the  pale  August  moon  rose  up  the 
misty  sky.  The  trees,  waving  faintly  in  the  salt  sea  wind, 
cast  long,  slanting  shadows  across  the  dusty  whiteness  of  the 
high  road,  as  from  the  town  beyond,  from  the  brightly  lit  sta 
tion,  a  fly  from  the  railway  drove  through  the  gates  and  up 
the  moonlit  avenue  to  the  house.  A  young  man  sprang  out, 
paid  and  dismissed  the  man,  and  paused  a  moment  in  the 
pallid  light  to  look  about  him.  Only  two  years  since  he  had 
stood  here  last — two  years.  Nothing  had  changed — nothing 
but  his  life,  and  the  hot  fever  of  his  own  youthful  fancy — 


46  AT  CARYLLYNXE. 

the  fair,  treacherous  face  of  a  woman  had  spoiled  that  for 
ever. 

He  lifted  the  heavy  bronze  knocker  and  sent  the  echoes 
ringing  dully  clown  the  great  hall.  The  man  who  opened 
the  door,  an  old  family  servant,  started  back  with  a  cry  of 
surprise  and  delight. 

"Sure  to  goodness,  if  it  isn't  Mr.  Gordon  come  back  !" 

"Mr.  Gordon  come  back — bad  shillings  always  come 
back,  don't  they?  How  are  you,  Norton?  Is  my  mother 
in?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Gordon.  In  her  own  rooms.  You  know  the 
way — " 

"  Go  and  tell  her  I  am  here,  Norton,  and  be  quick  about 
it,  will  you  ?  I'll  wait." 

The  man  stared,  but  obeyed.  Gordon  Caryll  stood  in  the 
long,  echoing,  deserted  hall,  staring  moodily  out  at  the 
moonlight,  and  not  at  all  sure,  in  spite  of  his  letter,  whether 
his  mother  would  deign  to  see  him  or  not.  But  his  doubts 
were  speedily  set  at  rest.  Norton  reappeared. 

"  My  mistress  will  see  you,  Mr.  Gordon,  sir.  She  bids 
you  come  to  her  at  once  in  her  morning  room." 

He  waited  for  no  more ;  she  would  see  him  ;  he  had 
hardly  dared  hope  it ;  she  might  forgive  him — who  knew  ? 
He  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs  and  tapped  at  the  familiar  door. 

"  Come  in,"  his  mother's  calm  voice  said,  and,  hat  in 
hand,  he  entered. 

Mother  and  son  stood  face  to  face.  A  cluster  of  wax- 
lights  lit  the  room  brilliantly.  In  their  full  glow  Mrs, 
Caryll  stood,  her  tall  figure  upheld  at  its  tallest,  her  widow's 
weeds  trailing  the  carpet,  her  widow's  cap  on  her  dark,  un- 
silvered  hair,  her  face  like  a  face  cut  in  white  stone.  In 
that  moment,  if  he  could  have  but  seen  it,  she  bore  a  curi 
ous,  passing  likeness  to  himself  as  he  had  stood,  pale  and 
relentless,  before  the  girl  who  had  been  his  wife. 

"  Mother  ! " 

She  made  a  sudden,  hasty  motion  for  him  to  stand  still  and 
back,  a  motion  again  like  his  own  as  he  had  repelled  his 
most  miserable  wife.  He  obeyed,  closing  the  door,  and 
knowing  his  whole  fate  in  that  second  of  time. 


AT  CARYLLYNNE.  47 

She  stood  for  fully  a  minute,  silently  looking  at  him,  never 
softening  one  whit.  She  saw  the  cruel  changes  those  two 
years  had  made  plainly  enough,  the  youthful  face  grown  grave 
and  worn,  the  hollow  eyes,  the  colorless  cheeks.  He  had 
sinned,  but  he  had  also  suffered.  Well,  it  was  right  ;  here 
and  hereafter  is  not  suffering  the  inevitable  penalty  of  sin  ? 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "forgive  me." 

She  made  a  motion  of  her  hand  toward  the  picture  above 
the  mantel. 

"  You  know  that  he  is  dead  ?  "  were  her  first  words. 

"  I  know  it.  Oh,  mother,  I  acknowledge  all  my  wrong 
doing,  my  shame,  my  sin,  if  you  will  call  it  so.  I  was  mad. 
All  1  could  do  to  atone,  I  have  done.  Mother,  forgive  me, 
if  you  can  !  " 

"  Forgive  you  ! "  Her  eyes  blazed  out  upon  him  for  one 
moment  with  a  lurid  fire.  "  I  will  never  forgive  you  so  long 
as  we  both  live  ! " 

He  walked  over  to  the  low  mantel,  laid  his  arm  upon  it, 
and  his  bowed  face  on  his  arm.  She  stood  and  looked  at 
him,  her  breast  heaving  with  strong,  repressed  emotion,  her 
eyes  glowing  like  fire  in  her  pale  face. 

"  For  three  hundred  years,"  she  said,  in  that  tense  tone 
of  suppressed  passion,  "  the  Carylls  have  been  born,  have 
lived  and  died  beneath  this  roof,  brave  men,  noble  gentle 
men  always.  It  was  left  for  my  son  to  bring  shame  and  dis 
honor  at  last.  The  name  was  never  approached  by  dis 
grace  until  you  bore  it.  Your  grandfather  married  a  duke's 
daughter ;  you,  the  last  of  your  name,  take  a  wife  from  the 
sweepings  of  New  York  city — an  actress — a  street-walker — 
a  creature  whose  vile,  painted  face  was  displayed  nightly  in 
the  lowest  theatre  of  the  worst  of  American  cities.  J/v 
son,  did  I  call  you?  I  take  it  back.  After  to-night  I  have 
no  son  ! " 

He  never  moved ;  he  never  .spoke.  His  hidden  face  she 
could  not  see.  That  very  silence  was  as  oil  to  fire. 

"  One  month  ago  your  father  died — died  of  your  shame. 
You  stand  there  as  much  his  murderer  as  though  you  had 
stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  He  died  unforgiving  you — every 
rood  of  land,  every  shilling  of  fortune  left  away  from  you. 


48  AT  CARYLLYNNE. 

Not  an  inch  of  Caryllynne  is  entailed — that  you  know — not 
one  farthing  of  the  noble  inheritance  that  was  your  birth 
right  shall  you  ever  possess.  The  name  you  dishonor  is 
yours  beyond  power  to  recall ;  but  that  alone — not  one 
thing  more.  And  after  to-night  you  never  cross  this  thresh 
old  again." 

Still  no  reply — still  he  stood  like  a  figure  of  stone. 

"  You  say  you  have  atoned,"  his  mother  went  on,  in  that 
low,  passionate  voice.  "Atoned!  That  means  you  have 
dragged  the  name  of  Caryll  through  the  mire  and  filth  of  a 
divorce  court — that  your  story  and  hers,  that  lost  wretch,  is 
in  the  mouths  of  all  men  in  Canada  and  England.  Your 
atonement  is  worse  than  your  crime.  Your  atonement  shall 
last  your  life  long.  Now  go !  All  I  wish  to  say,  I  have 
said — I  will  never  forgive  you — I  will  never  look  upon  your 
face  again ! " 

The  very  words  he  had  spoken  to  his  divorced  wife  ! 
What  fatality  was  at  work  here  ?  She  ceased  speaking,  and 
Gordon  Caryll  lifted  his  haggard  face  and  looked  at  her — to 
the  day  of  her  death  a  look  to  haunt  her  with  a  pain  sharper 
than  death  itself. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say,"  he  answered,  very  quietly.  "  I 
don't  think  I  expected  anything  else — I  suppose  I  deserve 
nothing  better.  I  will  not  trouble  you  again.  For  the 
name  I  have  dishonored,  have  no  fear — it  shall  be  dis 
honored  by  my  bearing  it  no  more.  I  leave  it  behind  with 
all  the  rest.  Good-night,  mother,  and  good-by." 

And  then  he  was  gone.  The  door  closed  gently  behind 
him,  and  she  was  alone.  Alone  !  she  would  be  alone  her 
life-long  now. 

She  was  ghastly  white — ashen  white  to  the  lips.  But — 
she  had  done  her  duty  !  That  thought  must  console  her  in 
all  the  long,  lonely  years  to  come.  She  stood  for  nearly 
half  an  hour  in  the  spot  where  he  had  left  her,  stock-still. 
Then  she  slowly  turned,  walked  across  the  room,  lifted  a 
velvet  curtain,  and  entered  what  seemed  an  oratory. 
Over  a  sort  of  altar,  a  painting  of  the  Madonna  di  San  Sisto 
hung — an  exquisite  copy;  and  the  heavenly  mother,  with 
the  serene,  uplifted  face,  holding  the  child-Christ  in  her 


AT  CARYLLYNNE.  49 

arms,  was  there  before  the  earthly  mother,  who  for  one  rash 
act.  had  cast  her  only  son  off  forever. 

On  a  prayer-desk,  before  this  altar,  a  Bible  lay.  At  ran 
dom  she  opened  it — in  a  blind  sort  of  way  seeking  for  com 
fort.  And  this  is  what  she  read  : 

"  Behold  the  king  weepeth  and  mourneth  for  Absalom. 
And  the  victory  that  day  was  turned  into  mourning  unto  all 
the  people,  for  the  people  heard  say  that  day  how  the  king 
was  grieved  for  his  son.  But  the  king  covered  his  face,  and 
the  king  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  « Oh,  my  son  Absalom  1 
Oh,  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  ! '  " 
3 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GORDON   CARYLL'S   STORY. 

jIS  trial  was  over,  his  sentence  was  passed,  and 
Gordon  Caryll  went  out  from  his  mother's  presence 
an  outcast  and  banished  man. 

"  All  for  love,  and  the  world  well  lost,"  he  said 
to  himself,  with  something  that  was  almost  a  smile.  "  Ah, 
well !  Come  what  will,  I  have  been  blessed.  For  four 
months  I  had  my  fool's  paradise — let  that  thought  console 
me,  in  all  the  years  of  outlawry  that  are  to  come." 

He  did  not  leave  the  house  directly.  On  the  landing  he 
paused  a  moment  irresolute,  then  turned,  ran  up  another  stair 
way,  opened  one  of  the  many  doors  that  flanked  the  long  cor 
ridor,  and  entered  the  rooms  that  had  been  his  own.  Only 
the  moonlight  lit  them,  but  that  was  brilliant  almost  as  day. 
With  that  slight,  sad  smile  on  his  lips  he  walked  through 
them.  Everywhere  traces  of  his  dead  father's  pride  in  him,  his 
mother's  love  for  him,  were  scattered  with  lavish  hand.  More 
luxurious  almost  were  those  rooms  than  his  mother's  own. 

"They  will  serve  for  my  mother's  heir,"  the  young  soldier 
thought — "  whoever  that  may  be.  Lucia  Dynely's  little  son 
Eric,  very  likely.  She  was  always  fond  of  Lucia  ;  so,  for 
that  matter,  was  I.  My  pretty  cousin!  It  is  but  seven 
miles  distant,  and  there  is  time  and  to  spare.  Suppose  I 
look  her  up  for  the  last  time  before  I  go  forth  into  the  outer 
darkness,  and  be  heard  of  no  more  ?  " 

He  selected  a  few  trifles,  a  picture  of  this  mother,  another 
of  this  "Cousin  Lucia"  of  his  thoughts,  a  gold-mounted 
meerschaum  pipe — then  with  a  last  backward  glance  of  fare 
well  at  the  pretty  moonlit  rooms,  he  ran  down  the  stairs, 
out  of  the  silent  house,  the  great  door  closed  with  a  clang 
behind  him,  and  all  was  over. 


GORDON  CARYLUS  STORY.  5! 

He  made  his  way  to  the  stables,  startling  grooms  and  sta 
ble  boys  as  though  he  had  been  a  ghost. 

"Saddle  Dark  Diamond,  Morris,"  he  ordered;  "I'm 
going  to  Dynely  Abbey,  and  will  leave  him  there  behind 
me.  You  can  go  over  for  him  to-morrow." 

He  vaulted  lightly  into  the  saddle,  cantered  down  the 
avenue,  out  of  the  great  gates,  and  beyond  the  far-stretching 
park  that  was  never  to  call  him  master. 

As  he  stopped  for  one  last  look,  never,  it  seemed  to  him, 
had  the  old  ancestral  home  looked  so  noble  and  desirable 
as  on  this  August  night,  under  the  yellow  light  of  the  sum 
mer  moon. 

"A  fair  and  stately  heritage  to  yield  for  a  girl's  face,"  he 
thought,  bitterly.  "  May  my  successor  be  wiser  than  I,  and 
be  kept  from  that  maddest  of  all  man's  madness — loving  a 
woman !  " 

His  horse  was  a  fleet  one — he  spurred  him  on  to  a 
gallop.  For  miles,  as  he  rode,  the  woods  of  Caryllynne 
stretched,  on  the  other  hand  the  cottage  lights  twinkled,  the 
village  forge  flamed  forth  lurid  red,  old  familiar  landmarks 
met  him  everywhere,  and  far  beyond  the  broad  sweep  of  the 
silver-lighted  sea. 

Less  than  half  an  hour  brought  him  to  his  destination, 
Dynely  Abbey,  the  seat  of  Viscount  Dynely — a  huge  his 
toric  pile,  that  long  centuries  ago  had  been  a  Cistercian 
monastery,  in  the  days  when  the  "  Keys  and  Cross  and 
Triple  Crown  "  held  mighty  sway  through  all  broad  England. 
As  he  rode  at  a  gallop  up  the  entrance  avenue,  in  view  of 
the  great  gray  Abbey,  pearly  white  in  the  moonlight,  his 
horse  shied  at  some  white  object,  so  suddenly  and  violently 
as  almost  to  unseat  his  rider.  Gordon  Caryll  laughed  as  he 
leaped  off  and  patted  him  soothingly  on  the  head. 

"  So  ho,  Diamond  !  Easy,  old  fellow.  Does  the  sight  of 
my  pretty  Cousin  Lucia,  in  her  white  dress  and  shawl,  upset 
your  nervous  system  like  this?" 

He  threw  the  bridle  over  a  tree,  and  advanced  to  where  a 
lady,  in  a  silk  dinner  dress,  and  wrapped  in  a  white  fleecy 
shawl,  stood. 

"  Lady  Dynely,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat,  "good-evening." 


52  GORDON  CARYLDS  STORY. 

She  had  been  slowly  pacing,  as  though  for  an  evening 
constitutional,  round  and  round  a  great  ornamental  fish 
pond.  As  horse  and  rider  appeared  she  had  paused  in  some 
alarm — then,  as  the  unexpected  visitor  approached,  and  the 
bright  light  of  the  moon  fell  on  his  face,  she  had  uttered  a 
low  cry  of  great  surprise  and  delight,  and  held  out  to  him 
both  hands. 

"  Gordon  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Gordon  !  Can  it  be 
you?" 

She  was  a  pretty  woman — three-and-twenty,  perhaps, 
with  a  fair  blonde  face,  a  profusion  of  pale  blonde  hair,  a 
tall,  willowy,  fragile  figure.  The  fair  face,  the  pale  blue 
eyes,  lit  up  now  with  genuine  delight. 

"  I,  Lady  Dynely.  You  hardly  looked  for  me  to-night, 
did  you  ?  And  yet,  you  must  have  known  I  would  come." 

Her  color  rose.     She  withdrew  the  hand  he  held  still. 

"  I  did  not  know  it.  How  could  I  tell  ?  Your  mother 
was  here  to-day — she  said  nothing  about  it.  When  did  you 
come?" 

"  Two  hours  ago.  And  as  to-morrow  morning,  by  the 
first  train,  I  leave  again  for  good,  I  ran  the  risk  of  not  find 
ing  you  at  home,  and  rode  over  to  say  good-by.  By  the 
way,  it's  rather  a  coincidence,  but  one  August  night  two 
years  ago,  you  and  I  shook  hands  and  parted  on  this  very 
spot.  You  were  dressed  in  white  that  night,  too,  I  remem 
ber,  and  looked  as  you  always  do  look,  belle  cousine,  fair 
and  sweet,  and  pale  as  a  lily." 

Again  her  color  rose,  but  the  blue,  startled  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  his  face. 

"  Say  good-by — leave  for  good  !  "  she  repeated.  "  What 
is  it  you  mean  ?  Gordon,  have  you  seen  your  mother?  " 

"Yes,  Lucia,  I  have  seen  my  mother.  I  have  just  come 
from  Caryllynne.  I  have  bidden  farewell  to  it  and  to  my 
mother  forever." 

She  stood  looking  at  him  in  painful  silence — that  sensitive 
rose-pink  color  coming  and  going  in  her  cheeks.  In  the 
crystal  moonlight  she  could  see  the  great  and  saddening 
change  in  him.  She  clasped  both  hands  around  his 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  soft,  pitiful  eyes. 


GORDON  CARYLUS  STORY.  ^ 

"  Gordon — cousin,"  she  said,  gently,  "  is  it  true,  this 
story  they  tell,  that  is  in  the  papers,  that  all  London  rang 
with  before  we  left?  It  must  be  true,  and  yet — oh,  Gor 
don  !  unless  you  tell  me  with  your  own  lips  I  cannot  be 
lieve." 

"Then  I  tell  you,"  he  moodily  answered,  "  it  is  true." 

"  That  you  married  an  actress — an — oh,  Gordon  !  "  she 
said  passionately,  "  I  would  rather  see  you  dead  ! " 

"  You  are  not  alone  in  that,  I  fancy,"  he  said,  -with  a 
drearily  reckless  laugh.  "  All  the  same,  I  have  done  it.  All 
the  same,  too,  I  have  had  enough  of  reproach  and  bitterness 
for  one  night — it  is  my  last,  remember — don't  you  take  up 
the  cry  against  me.  Those  gentle  lips  of  yours,  ma  belle, 
were  never  made  to  say  cruel  things.  We  have  been  good 
friends  always — let  us  so  part." 

She  sighed  wearily,  her  hands  still  loosely  clasped  his  arm, 
her  blue,  pitying  eyes  still  fixed  on  his  face.  His  gloomy 
gaze  was  bent  on  the  water-lilies  in  the  pond,  whose  pale 
heads  he  was  mercilessly  switching  off  with  his  riding  whip. 

"  I  am  sorry — I  am  sorry.  But  your  mother,  Gordon, 
surely  she  pities  you  and  forgives  you.  I  know  how  stern 
and  resolute  she  can  be  where  she  thinks  her  duty  is  con 
cerned;  but  you,  her  only  son,  whom  she  loves  so 
dearly — " 

"  She  has  disinherited  and  cast  me  off  forever.  It  is  all 
right,  Lucia.  I  don't  deny  the  justice  of  my  sentence,  only 
you  see  one  looks  rather  for  mercy  than  for  justice  from 
one's  mother." 

"  But  she  does  not  mean  it — she  speaks  in  anger.  She 
will  repent  and  call  you  back." 

He  smiled — a  slow,  hard,  inexorable  smile. 

"  It  is  a  little  late  for  all  that.  What  is  done  is  done.  I 
will  never  go  back.  She  says  truly,  I  have  disgraced  the 
name — the  only  atonement  I  can  make  is  to  renounce  it. 
She  has  ordered  me  from  her  sight  and  her  home  forever — 
one  does  not  wait  to  be  told  that  twice." 

"  How  could  she — how  could  she  !  "  his  cousin  murmured, 
the  soft  blue  eyes  filling  and  brimming  over;  "you,  her 
only  son — all  she  has  left — whom  she  loved  so  dearly 


54  GORDON  CARYLDS  STORY. 

Oh  !  how  could  she  do  it !  Gordon,  I,  too,  have  a  son, 
my  little  Erie,  and  I  love  him  so  devotedly,  so  entirely,  that 
I  feel,  I  know,  no  crime  he  could  commit,  though  it  were 
murder  itself,  could  ever  for  one  second  change  that  love. 
Do  what  he  might — yes,  the  very  worst  man  can  do,  I 
would  still  love  him  and  take  him  to  my  heart." 

Her  pale  face  glowed,  her  pale  eyes  lit,  her  voice  arose. 
Her  cousin  looked  at  her  tenderly. 

"I  can  believe  that,"  he  said;  "but  you  see,  Lucia, 
there  are  mothers  and  mothers — and  Viscountess  Dynely 
and  Mrs.  Caryll  are  of  two  very  different  orders.  I  never 
did  prefer  the  Spartan  sort  myself,  ready  to  run  the  knife 
through  their  nearest  and  dearest  at  a  moment's  notice. 
Still,  I  repeat,  my  sentence  has  been  deserved,  and  is  just." 

"Gordon,  tell  me  all  about  it,  will  you?  I  know  so  lit 
tle,  I  read  the  papers,  of  course,  but  still — " 

"  Is  it  worth  while,  Lucia  ?  It  is  not  a  pleasant  or  profit 
able  story.  Do  you  really  care  to  know  ?  " 

"  Gordon  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  your  affectionate  interest  in  me  and  my 
concerns,  fairest  cousin,  and  I  don't  mind  boring  you  with 
the  details  of  a  young  fool's  folly.  Folly !  good  heaven 
above !  What  a  fool  I  was !  What  a  gullible,  wooden- 
headed,  imbecile  idiot  I  must  have  been  !  " 

"  You — you  loved  her,  Gordon  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  it  was  love,  that  blind  and  be 
sotted  fever  her  beauty  and  her  witcheries  threw  me  into. 
She  was  a  sorceress  whose  accursed  spells  sent  every  man 
she  met  under  sixty  straightway  out  of  his  senses.  Why 
she  threw  the  rest  over  for  me  (she  had  half  the  battalion  at 
her  feet)  was  clear  enough.  I  was  the  youngest,  the  richest, 
and  the  greatest  ass  in  Toronto.  She  turned  scores  of 
other  heads,  but  not  to  that  pitch  of  idiocy  which  proffers 
wedding  rings.  I  had  only  seen  her  six  times  when  1  asked 
her  to  marry  me — you  may  faintly  guess  the  depth  and 
breadth  of  my  imbecility  when  I  tell  you  that." 

"  She  was  handsome,  Gordon  ?  " 

"  She  was  more  than  handsome,  Lucia.  She  had  a 
beaute  du  diable  whose  like  I  have  never  seen — that  no  man 


GORDON   CARYLDS  STORY.  55 

could  resist — a  dark,  richly-colored.  Southern  sort  of  beauty, 
of  the  earth  earthy.  She  was  small  and  slender,  with  a 
waist  you  could  snap  like  a  pipe-stem,  two  large  black  eyes, 
like  a  panther's,  precisely,  and  a  smile  that  sent  you  straight 
out  of  your  senses.  All  the  fellows  in  Toronto  ra\ed  of 
her — she  was  the  toast  of  the  mess,  the  talk  of  the  town. 
Only  the  women  fought  shy  of  her — they  took  her  gauge  by 
intuition,  I  suppose.  Before  she  had  been  a  week  in 
Toronto,  Major  Lovell  and  his  daughter  were  the  topic,  in 
ball-room,  and  boudoir,  and  barracks." 

"  She  was  a  Miss  Lovell  ?  "  Lady  Dynely  asked,  in  a  con 
strained  sort  of  tone.  One  hand  still  rested  on  his  arm,  and 
as  they  talked  they  walked  slowly  round  and  round  the  fish 
pond.  In  the  days  that  were  gone  she  had  been  very  fond 
of  her  dashing  boy  cousin  and  playmate — very  fond — with 
sisterly  fondness  she  told  herself — nothing  more. 

"  You  will  hear.  I  had  been  a  year  in  Toronto  before 
she  came,  a  dull  and  dreary  year  enough,  with  nothing  but 
the  daily  drill,  the  parade,  the  routine  of  military  life,  the 
provincial  balls  and  dinner  parties,  the  provincial  flirtations 
with  dark  Canadian  belles  to  break  the  monotony.  All  at 
once  she  came,  and  everything  changed.  Major  Lovell 
brought  his  daughter  among  us — and  it  seemed  to  me  my 
life  began.  He  was  a  disreputable  old  duffer  enough,  this 
Lovell,  a  drunkard,  a  sharper  at  cards,  a  rooker  at  billiards, 
living  on  his  half-pay  and  his  whole  wits.  He  was  a  widower, 
with  a  daughter  out  in  Bermuda  with  her  mother's  friends, 
who  declined  to  live  with  her  rascally  old  father.  He  was 
in  the  habit  of  disappearing  and  reappearing  in  Toronto  at 
odd  times — this  time,  after  a  longer  absence  than  usual,  he 
reappeared  with  his  daughter. 

"  He  met  me  one  bleak  autumn  night  lounging  aimlessly 
down  one  of  the  principal  streets,  dressed  for  a  heavy  sacri 
ficial  dinner  party,  yawning  at  the  boredom  in  prospective, 
wishing  all  civilian  dinner-givers  at  the  deuce,  and,  willy-nilly, 
he  linked  his  seedy  old  arm  in  mine. 

"  '  En  route  for  Rogers',  dear  boy  ?  '  he  said,  with  a  grin, 
*  and  looking  ennuied  to  death  even  at  the  thought  of  what 
is  in  store  for  you.  Why  make  a  martyr  of  yourself,  Gor- 


56  GORDON  CARYLL'S  STORY. 

don,  my  lad — why  sacrifice  yourself  on  the  altar  of  acquaint- 
anceship  ?  Throw  over  the  bloated  timber  merchant,  come 
to  my  lowly  wigwam,  and  let's  have  a  friendly  game  at  ecarte, 
I'll  give  you  a  deviled  kidney,  and  a  glass  of  sherry — you 
can  drop  in  at  Rogers'  when  the  heavy  feeding's  over. 
Besides,' — after  a  pause,  this,  and  with  a  sideling  glance — 
'  I  want  to  show  you  my  little  girl — bless  her  !  She's  come 
to  keep  house  for  her  old  dad  at  last.' 

"  I  made  some  faint  resistance — only  faint,  and  yielded. 
I  had  a  weakness  for  ecarte  ;  the  major  was  past-master  of 
the  game,  although  he  made  his  lessons  rather  expensive  to 
youngsters  like  myself. 

"  *  Neville  and  Dalton  and  two  or  three  more  of  Yours 
are  coming,'  he  said,  as  he  inserted  his  latch  key.  '  Rosie 
will  give  you  a  bit  of  supper  by  and  by,  and  sing  you  a 
song,  if  you  like  that  sort  of  thing.  Come  in,  Gordon — 
come  in,  my  boy,  and  thrice  welcome  to  the  old  man's 
modest  mansion.' 

"  And  then  I  was  in,  out  of  the  cold,  dark  Canadian  night, 
in  a  fire-lit,  lamp-lit  parlor,  looking  with  dazzled  eyes  down 
upon  the  loveliest  face,  I  thought,  that  firelight  or  sunlight 
ever  shone  on. 

"She  had  sprung  up  at  our  entrance — she  had  been 
crouched  in  kittenish  fashion  on  the  hearth  rug,  and  two  big, 
wonderful  eyes,  of  tawny  blackness,  were  looking  up  at  me. 
I  thought  of  Balzac's  'Girl  with  the  Golden  Eyes' — these 
were  black  or  yellow,  just  as  the  shifting  firelight  rose  or  fell. 
As  I  stood  staring  in  a  stupefied  trance  of  wonder  and  ad 
miration,  the  major's  fat,  unctuous  old  voice  droned  in  my 
ear. 

"  '  Rosamond,  my  child — my  young  friend,  Mr.  Caryll, 
of  Caryllynne,  Devon,  England,  and  Her  Majesty's — the 
Royal  Rifles,  Toronto,  Canada.  Gordon,  my  boy — my  little 
daughter  Rosie.' 

"  Then  a  little  brown  hand  slipped  out  to  me,  the  dark 
luminous  eyes  and  the  red  dimpling  lips  smiled  together. 

"  '  I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  Mr.  Gordon  Gary  11  of • 

what's  all  the  rest,  papa?  Very  pleased  to  meet  anybody, 
I'm  sure,  in  this  cold,  nasty,  dreary  Canada.' 


GORDON  CARYLUS  STORY. 


57 


"'You  don't  like  Canada  then,  Miss  Lovell  ? '  I 
managed  to  stammer.  *  I  am  sorry  for  that.  We  must  tr> 
and  change  your  opinion  of  it  before  long.  What  with 
skating  and  sleighing,  it  isn't  half  a  bad  place.' 

"She  pouted  and  laughed  like  a  child.  She  was 
singularly  childish  in  form  and  face,  hardly  looking  sixteen. 

** '  Not  half  a  bad  place  !  Where  you  grill  alive  three 
summer  months  and  shiver  to  death  nine  winter  ones.  Oh, 
my  dear  Bermuda  !  Where  the  hearts  were  as  warm  as  the 
climate,  and  the  faces  as  sunny  as  the  skies.  No  fear  of 
being  lonely,  or  miserable,  or  neglected  there.  If  papa  would 
let  me,  I  would  go  back  to-morrow.' 

"  '  But  papa  won't,'  the  major  put  in  with  a  chuckle ; 
'papa  can't  spare  his  one  ewe  lamb  yet.  Mr.  Caryll  here,  1 
am  sure,  will  do  his  best  to  make  time  pass,  little  one. 
Hark  !  I  hear  a  knocking  in  the  south  entry — the  othei 
fellows  at  last.' 

"  Then  with  much  laughter,  and  stamping  and  noise, 
three  or  four  military  men  came  clattering  in  out  of  the 
cold  and  damp  darkness,  and  were  presented  to  '  My 
daughter,  Rosamond.' 

u  I  don't  know  how  it  was  with  them ;  I  can  answer  tor 
myself — from  the  first  moment  I  looked  on  Rosamond 
Lovell's  face  I  lost  my  head.  You  know  me  well  enough. 
Lucia,"  the  speaker  broke  off  with  a  half  laugh,  "to  know 
I  never  do  that  sort  of  thing  by  halves.  But  this  was  differ 
ent  from  anything  that  had  gone  before.  I  looked  on  those 
wonderful  dusky  eyes  only  once,  and  said  to  myself,  '  I  \vill 
win  Rosamond  Lovell  for  my  wife,  if  it  be  in  the  power 
of  mortal  man  to  win  her.' 

"  I  lost  no  time  in  setting  about  my  wooing.  No  wonder 
the  other  fellows  laughed.  They  admired  old  Lovell's 
daughter,  too,  no  doubt — that  was  a  matter  of  course — but 
not  to  the  depth  of  lunacy.  They  left  that  for  me.  I 
declined  ecarte,  I  declined  deviled  kidney,  declined  the 
doubtful  sherry— I  was  sufficiently  intoxicated  already. 
The  peerless  Rosamond  smiled  upon  me  but  shyly ;  she  was 
not  accustomed  to  such  sudden  and  overpowering  devotion 
— timid  angel !  Still,  she  did  smile,  and  let  me  accompany 
3* 


58  GORDON  CARYLDS  STORY. 

her  to  the  distant  corner  where  the  piano  stood,  while  the 
other  men  played  for  ponies  in  the  distance,  and  the  major 
with  great  impartiality  fleeced  all  alike.  She  played  for  me 
on  the  jingly  piano  ;  she  sang  for  me  in  a  rich  contralto. 

"  I  can  see  her  now  as  she  sat  there  that  first  fatal  night, 
in  a  pink  dress,  white  roses  in  her  belt  and  in  her  bosom, 
the  lamplight  streaming  across  her  rich,  dusk  loveliness. 
Paugh !  the  smell  of  white  roses  will  turn  me  sick  ail  my 
life. 

"  It  was  late  when  we  broke  up,  and  Miss  Lovell,  shrink 
ing  pettishly  from  the  other  men,  held  out  her  hand  with  a 
soft  good-night  to  me.  I  went  out  from  the  warm,  bright 
room,  into  the  black,  rain-beaten  midnight,  with  head  and 
heart  in  a  whirl.  The  others,  not  too  pensive  over  their  losses 
at  first,  chaffed  me  clumsily,  but  the  hospitable  major  had 
bled  them  all  so  freely  at  ecarte,  that  their  deadly,  lively 
jokes  soon  lapsed  into  moody  silence.  To-morrow  evening, 
they  were  to  go  back  for  their  revenge,  and  the  friendly 
major  had  asked  me  too. 

"  '  Though  you  did  throw  us  over,  Caryll,  my  boy,'  he 
said  in  his  big  debonnaire  voice,  'you'll  keep  little  Rosie 
from  moping  herself  to  death.  Yes,  yes,  come  to-morrow  and 
fetch  her  the  new  songs.  She  has  a  passion  for  music,  my 
little  one,  and  a  voice  that  would  make  Lind  look  to  hei 
laurels  if  the  poor  old  dad  could  afford  to  cultivate  it.' 

"I  tossed  feverishly  through  the  dark  morning  hours. 
*  Rosamond  !  Rosamond  ! '  I  kept  repeating  ;  *  there  is 
music  in  the  very  name,  music  in  her  voice  when  she  speaks, 
music  celestial  in  her  tones  when  she  sings.  And  to  think 
that  my  little  white  "  Rose  of  the  World"  should  be  daughter 
to  such  a  confounded  old  cad  as  that.  But  I  will  marry  her 
and  take  her  home  to  Caryllynne  and  my  mother,'  I 
thought ;  and  I  could  picture  to  myself  my  mother's  whole 
heart  going  out  in  love  and  welcome,  to  her  son's  fair 
young  bride.  I  didn't  much  fear  a  rejection — I  was  consti 
tutionally  sanguine,  and  she  had  been  as  kind  as  heart  could 
desire.  Unless — and  I  grew  cold  and  hot  at  the  mere 
fancy — unless  she  had  left  a  lover  behind  in  Bermuda. 

*  At  the  very  earliest  possible  hour  next  morning,  I  made 


GORDON  CARYLVS  STORY.  59 

an  elaborate  toilet  and  sallied  forth  for  conquest.  I  pur 
chased  an  armful  of  music,  and  presented  myself  at  Major 
LovelPs  dingy  little  cottage.  The  major  was  out — Miss 
Rosamond  was  in — that  was  what  the  grimy  maid-of-all-work 
told  me.  I  entered  the  parlor,  and  Rosamond  was  there  to 
meet  and  welcome  me,  more  fresh,  and  youthful,  and  lovely 
in  the  broad,  bright  sunshine,  than  even  under  the  lamp 
light  last  night. 

"  '  Oh,  what  quantities  of  music  !  Oh,  how  kind  of  me  ! 
All  the  songs  she  liked  best.  Oh,  how  could  she  ever 
thank  me  enough  ! ' 

"  *  By  letting  me  come  to — to  see  you  every  day.  By — 
caring  for  me  a  little.  By  letting  me  say  how  happy  it  will 
make  me  to  be  welcomed  here  by  you.' 

"  Stammering  over  this  speech,  blushing  and  floundering 
like  any  other  hobbledehoy  in  the  agonies  of  calf-love,  I 
lifted  her  hand  to  my  lips,  a  la  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and 
kissed  it. 

"  I  can  imagine  now  how  she  must  have  been  laughing  in- 
wardly  at  the  green  young  fool  she  had  hooked.  But 
private  theatricals  were  in  her  line,  her  maidenly  confusion 
and  embarrassment  were  done  to  the  life. 

"  I  lingered  for  hours,  while  she  tried  over  the  songs,  and 
dimly  realized  two  facts  :  that  her  knowledge  of  piano-forte 
music  was  but  meagre  after  all,  and  that  she  had  really  very 
little  to  say  for  herself.  Only  dimly  ;  I  was  much  too  far 
gone  to  realize  anything  very  clearly,  except  that  she  was 
the  loveliest  little  creature  the  Canadian  sun  shone  on. 

"  That  evening  I  was  back.  Again  Rosamond  and  I  had 
our  corner,  our  singing  and  our  tttea-ttte ;  again  that  old 
wolf,  Lovell,  fleeced  those  big  innocent  military  lambs — as 
a  shearer  his  sheep.  That  was  the  story  over  and  over  for 
a  week — at  the  end  of  that  time,  I  walked  up  to  Major 
Lovell  one  forenoon,  and  demanded  the  priceless  boon  of 
his  daughter's  hand.  The  old  rascal's  start  of  amazement 
and  consternation  was  capital. 

" '  His  daughter  !  his  Rosie  !  his  little  girl  !  And  only  a 
week  since  we  had  met !  The  difference  in  our  positions, 
too  !  What  did  I  mean  ! '  Here  the  major  inflated  himself 


60  GORDON  CARYLDS   STORY. 

like  an  enraged  turkey-cock,  and  glared  fiercely  out  of  his 
fiery  litlle  eyes.  '  Not  to  insult  him,  surely  !  A  poor  man 
he  might  be — alas !  was,  but  always  an  officer  and  a  gentle 
man.' 

"  Here  he  stopped  sonorously  to  blow  his  nose.  '  Very 
little  of  a  gentleman,1  I  remember  thinking,  even  then. 

"  '  Have  I  taken  a  viper  into  the  bosom  of  my  family  ? ' 
pursued  the  old  humbug,  melodramatically.  *  You,  Mr. 
Gordon  Caryll,  sir,  are  heir  to  a  large  estate  and  for 
tune — the  last  of  an  ancient  and  distinguished  line ;  it  is 
also  true  that  I  am  but  one  remove  from  a  pauper,  still — ' 

"  *  Good  Heaven,  Lovell ! '  I  cried  out,  impetuously  cut 
ting  short  this  rhodornontade.  *  What  bosh  are  you  talking  ? 
I  mean  what  I  say,  I  mean  it  more  than  I  ever  meant  any 
thing  in  my  life.  Insult — nonsense  !  I  love  your  daughter, 
and  I  ask  you  to  give  her  to  me  for  my  wife.  We  have 
known  each  other  but  a  week,  it  is  true.  What  of  that  ? 
Love  is  not  a  plant  of  slow  growth — it  can  spring  up  like 
the  gourd  of  Jonas,  fully  grown  in  a  night.' 

"  I  think  I  must  have  read  that  somewhere.  It  struck 
me  even  at  the  time  as  sounding  rather  absurd,  and  I  looked 
to  see  if  the  major  was  laughing.  No  doubt  the  old  villain 
was,  for  he  had  turned  away  to  the  window,  and  was  elabor 
ately  wiping  his  eyes. 

"  '  And  she — my  Rosamond,'  he  said,  at  length,  in  a 
voice  husky  with  emotion  and  much  whiskey-punch — *  my 
little  one,  who,  only  a  year  ago,  it  seems  to  me,  played  with 
her  dolls,  and — and  marbles,  and — er — that  sort  of  thing, 
can  it  be  that  she  is  indeed  a  woman,  and  returns  your — er 
— 'pon  my  life,  very  flattering  passion  ?  ' 

"  I  smiled  exultantly  as  I  recalled  a  little  scene  of  last 
night,  in  that  musical  nook  of  ours,  the  lamp  turned  low, 
the  music  at  a  stand-still,  and  *  I  mark  the  king,  and  play,' 
'  Your  deal,  Deverell,'  '  Five  to  one  on  Innes,'  coming  from 
the  unromantic  ecarte  players  at  the  other  end — a  scene 
where  I,  "holding  Miss  Rosamond  Lovell' s  two  hands  in 
mine,  had  poured  forth  a  rhapsodical  story  of  consuming 
passion.  And  the  hands  had  not  been  drawn  away,  and, 
as  the  exquisite  face  drooped  in  the  dim  light,  she  had 


GORDON   CARYLDS,  STORY.  gj 

whispered  that  which  had  made  me  the  happiest  man  on 
earth. 

"  '  Yes,'  I  told  the  major,  *  that  was  all  right ;  she  had 
consented  to  be  my  wife — nothing  was  needed  but  his 
sanction.  And  I  hoped  he  would  agree  to  the  marriage 
being  at  once.  What  need  was  there  of  delay  ?  I  was  of 
age,  and  two  months  over — what  need  of  waiting  ?  I 
wanted  to  make  sure  of  my  prize.' 

"It  was  the  most  out-and-out  case  of  insanity  on  record. 
I  was  mad — sheer  mad.  I  cannot  account  for  my  besotted 
folly  in  any  other  way.  The  old  fox  made  a  feint  of  not 
consenting  at  first.  She  was  too  young — our  acquaintance 
was  so  scandalously  short — what  would  Toronto  say  ? 
What  would  my  father  and  mother  say  ?  The  thing  was  not 
to  be  thought  of. 

"  But  I  would  listen  to  nothing.  What  did  it  matter  what 
Toronto  said  ?  Toronto  might  go  hang  !  A[y  father  and 
mother  had  no  thought  but  for  my  happiness  ;  their  ultimate 
consent  was  all  right.  For  the  rest,  if  he  dreaded  the 
world's  tongue,  let  the  marriage  be  private,  just  as  private  as 
he  pleased,  and  in  a  month,  or  two  months,  or  whenever  I 
could  get  leave  of  absence,  I  and  my  wife  would  sail  for 
England.  When  the  thing  was  inevitable,  talk  would  die 
out.  Marry  my  darling  I  must;  life  without  her  was  insup 
portable,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"  I  grow  sick  at  heart,  Lucia,  when  I  recall  that  time. 
And  yet  I  was  blindly,  insanely  happy — with  that  utter  bliss 
that  in  the  days  of  our  first  youth  and  grossest  folly  we  can 
only  know.  We  were  married.  Rosamond  had  but  one 
female  acquaintance,  a  young  lady  music-teacher — she,  of 
course,  was  bridesmaid,  and  Singleton,  of  Ours,  was  best 
man.  We  were  married  in  the  cottage  parlor,  one  dark 
autumnal  morning,  all  on  the  quiet.  Clergyman,  groomsman, 
bridesmaid,  all  promised  secrecy.  Rosamond  remained  at 
the  cottage  with  her  father  as  before.  I  kept  my  rooms  in 
the  town.  I  did  not  write  to  announce  my  marriage — time 
enough  for  all  that,  I  thought.  I  would  get  leave  of  absence 
and  take  Rosamond  home — they  would  have  to  look  in 


62  GORDON  CARYLDS  STORY. 

her  face  but  once,  to  forget  my  rash  haste,  her  poverty  and 
obscurity,  and  take  her  to  their  hearts  forever. 

"But  days  and  weeks  and  months  slipped  away — four 
passed  ;  and  leave  had  not  yet  been  obtained.  As  might  be 
expected,  our  secret  had  leaked  out,  and  was  our  secret  no 
longer.  The  story  of  my  mad  marriage  was  whispered 
throughout  the  town,  and  only  my  blindness  was  upon  me 
still,  I  must  have  seen  the  looks  of  pity  that  met  me  at 
every  turn — pity  blended  with  amusement  and  contempt. 
But  I  saw  nothing,  suspected  nothing,  and  when  the  blow 
came,  it  fell  like  a  thunderbolt,  indeed. 

"  I  have  said  this  girl  I  had  married  was  a  perfect  actress 
— I  say  it  again.  Love  itself  she  could  counterfeit  to  the 
life  ;  she  fooled  me  to  the  top  of  my  bent ;  she  made  me 
believe  her  whole  heart  was  mine.  Her  face  lighted  when 
I  came,  saddened  when  I  went,  ay,  after  four  months  of 
matrimony  she  held  her  dupe  as  thoroughly  duped  as  on 
the  first  day.  Something  preyed  on  her  mind,  that,  at 
least,  I  saw.  She  looked  at  me  at  times  as  though  she 
feared  me  ;  she  looked  at  the  major  as  though  she  feared 
him.  The  old  fellow  had  taken  to  drinking  harder  than 
ever,  had  been  at  death's  door  with  delirium  tremens  more 
than  once  since  my  marriage,  and  in  his  cups  (I  learned 
after)  babbled  of  what  he  had  done. 

"  '  We  hooked  him,  sir,'  the  tipsy  major  would  hiccough, 
winking  his  bleary  old  eyes,  and  tottering  on  his  rickety  old 
legs,  *  hooked  him  like  the  gonest  coon  !  Oh,  Lord  !  what 
fools  young  men  are  !  a  pretty  girl  can  twist  the  biggest  of 
you  gallant  plungers  around  her  little  finger.  I've  known 
regiments  of  fools  in  my  lifetime,  but  that  young  ass,  Caryll 
• — oh,  by  Jupiter  !  he  puts  the  topper  on  the  lot.' 

"  It  was  the  major  himself  who  threw  up  his  hand,  and 
showed  me  the  game  he  had  played  at  last. 

"  He  had  caught  cold  after  a  horrible  fit  of  D.  T.,  and  I 
suppose  his  devil's  race  was  run — typhoid  fever  supervened, 
and  the  gallant  major  was  going  to  die.  Rosamond,  with 
him  still,  nursed  him  faithfully  and  devotedly,  and  tried  with 
All  her  power  to  keep  me  from  seeing  him  at  ail. 

"  '  You    can    do    no   good,    Gordon/    she  would  plead  : 


GORDON  CARYLUS  STORY.  £3 

'keep  away — don't  go  in.  You  may  catch  the  fever.  He 
wants  no  one  but  me.' 

"  The  bare  thought  of  my  entering  the  sick  room  seemed 
a  perpetual  terror  to  her.  She  would  have  no  nurse,  she 
would  wait  upon  him  herself,  she  almost  tried  by  force  to 
keep  me  from  seeing  him.  Off  and  on  he  was  delirious  ; 
as  a  rule  he  had  his  wits  about  him  though,  and  would  grin 
like  a  satyr  to  the  last. 

"  '  She's  afraid  I'll  peach,  Caryl  1,'  he  whispered  to  me 
one  day,  with  a  wink.  'Blessed  if  I  won't,  though.  / 
never  cared  about  her,  and  it  would  be  a  shame,  a  cursed 
shame,  to  go  off  hooks,  you  know,  and  not  tell.' 

"  '  Not  tell  what  ? '  I  asked,  sternly. 

" '  Never  you  mind,  Gordon,  my  boy,  you'll  hear  it  all 
fast  enough.  You  ain't  half  a  bad  sort,  hanged  if  you  are, 
and  I'm  sorry — yes,  I'm  sorry  I  did  it.  It  was  a  devilish 
unhandsome  trick  for  one  gentleman  to  play  on  another  ; 
but  it  was  good  fun  at  the  time,  that  you'll  be  forced  to 
admit  yourself.  Hush-h  !  here  she  comes,  not  a  word  to 
her.  I'll  tell  you  all  by  and  by.' 

"I  was  bewildered — half  startled  also  ;  but  I  set  it  down 
to  delirium.  She  came  in,  looking  with  quick,  apprehensive 
eyes  from  his  face  to  mine. 

"  '  Has  he  been  talking?  '  she  asked. 

" '  Nothing  you  would  care  to  hear,  Rosie,  my  girl,'  he 
cut  in,  with  a  feeble  chuckle  ;  '  not  a  word  about  you — ask 
him  if  you  like.' 

"  I  set  it  all  down  to  delirium.  *  Whom  the  gods  wish  to 
destroy  they  first  make  mad.'  My  madness  had  lasted  over 
four  months — 1  was  destined  to  become  sane  again. 

"  The  major  sank  lower  and  lower.  His  last  hour  was 
near.  Rosamond  never  left  him  when  she  could ;  she  still 
strove  with  all  her  might  to  keep  us  apart.  I  sometimes 
wonder  now  she  did  not  hasten  his  end.  She  was  quite 
capable  of  it,  I  believe. 

"  One  night  I  was  to  dine  in  the  town.  I  had  left  the 
cottage  and  nearly  reached  my  destination.  It  was  a 
stormy  February  night,  the  streets  white  with  drifting  snow, 
a  sleety  -vind  blowing  piercingly  cold.  Some  imaccount- 


64  GORDON  CARYLDS  STORY. 

able  depression  had  weighed  upon  me  all  day ;  my  wife  was 
strangely  changed  of  late ;  I  could  not  understand  her. 
The  major  was  very  low,  almost  at  his  last.  What  if  he 
died  while  I  was  absent,  Rosamond  and  the  servant-maid 
all  alone.  I  turned  hastily  back ;  I  would  share  my 
dear  girl's  vigil,  I  thought — nay,  I  would  compel  her  to  go 
to  bed  and  to  sleep ;  she  was  utterly  worn  out,  and  I  would 
watch  alone. 

"  I  returned  to  the  house,  and  entered  softly.  The  maid 
servant  was  alone  in  the  sick  room.  Miss  Rosamond  had 
fallen  asleep  at  her  post  from  sheer  weariness,  and  had  been 
persuaded  to  go  to  her  own  room  and  lie  down. 

"  '  You  did  quite  right,'  1  said  ;  '  I  will  share  your  watch. 
I  don't  think  he  will  last  out  the  night.' 

"  The  sick  man's  eyes  opened — a  cunning  leer  in  them 
to  the  last. 

"*  Don't  you,  Gordon,  my  boy — don't  you  think  I'll  last 
out  the  night?  Then,  by  Jove  !  it's  time  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  Where's  she  ?  Your  wife  ?' 

"  *  Up-stairs  in  her  own  room,  asleep.' 

"  'That's  right.  When  the  cat's  away  the  mice  can  play. 
Send  that  woman  back  to  the  kitchen — I've  a  word  or  two 
for  your  private  ear.' 

"  I  obeyed.     The  woman  went. 

"  *  Now  lock  the  door,  like  a  good  fellow,  and  come  here. 
Sit  close,  for  my  wind's  almost  gone,  and  I  can't  jaw  as  I 
used.  And  I  say !  look  here,  Caryll !  no  violence,  you 
know.  I'm  an  old  man,  and  I'm  dying,  and  I'm  sorry — • 
yes,  blessed  if  I  ain't — that  I  ever  fooled  you  as  I  did.  All 
the  reparation  I  can  make,  I  will  make — that's  fair,  surely. 
Now,  listen,  here,  Caryll ;  this  has  been  a  put-up  job  from 
first  to  last  Rosamond's  not  my  daughter  /' 

"  '  Not  your—' 

"  I  sat  staring  at  him  aghast. 

"  '  Not  my  daughter — no,  by  George  !  My  daughter,  the 
one  in  Bermuda,  you  know,  is  in  Bermuda  still,  and  a 
deuced  hard-featured  young  woman — takes  after  her  mother, 
and  wouldn't  touch  her  disreputable  old  dad  with  a 
pair  of  tongs.  No,  Gordon,  lad,  the  girl  you've  married 


GORDON  CARYLL^S  STORY.  65 

isn't  my  daughter.  I  don't  know  who's  daughter  she  is. 
She  doesn't  know  herself.  She's  your  wife — worse  luck ; 
but  she's  nothing  to  me.' 

"  I  sat  stunned,  dumb,  listening.  If  my  life  had  de 
pended  on  it,  I  could  not  have  spoken  a  word. 

"  '  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was,  Caryll,'  the  dying  old  repro 
bate  went  on.  ( Give  us  a  drop  of  that  catlap  in  the  tum 
bler  first.  Thanks.  It  was  in  New  York  I  met  her  first — 
in  New  York,  just  a  month  before  I  brought  her  here. 
Strolling  down  the  Bowery  one  night  I  went  into  a  concert- 
room,  or  music-hall,  of  the  lowest  sort.  Bowery  roughs, 
with  their  hats  on  and  cigars  in  their  mouths,  were  lying 
about  the  benches  yelling  for  "Rosamond"  to  come  out 
and  give  them  a  song.  Presently  the  wretched  orchestra 
began,  the  green  baize  drew  up,  and,  in  a  gaudy,  spangled 
dress,  a  banjo  in  her  hand,  tawdry  flowers  in  her  hair, 
"Rosamond"  came  bounding  forward,  smiling  and  kissing 
hands  to  her  vociferous  audience.  So  I  saw  her  for  the 
first  time — I  swear  it,  Caryll — the  girl  you  have  made  yo.ir 
wife ! ' 

"  'She  sang  song  after  song — you  can  imagine  the  highly- 
spiced  sort  of  songs  likely  to  suit  such  an  audience.  They 
applauded  her  to  the  echo,  stamping,  clapping,  whistling, 
yelling  with  wild  laughter  and  delight,  and  all  the  while  I 
sat,  and  stared,  and  wondered  at  her  beauty.  For  tawdry, 
and  painted,  and  brazen  as  she  was  that  night,  her  beauty, 
in  all  places  and  at  all  times,  is  a  thing  beyond  dispute. 
It  was  then,  sitting  there  and  looking  at  her,  that  the  plot 
came  into  my  head,  put  there  by  her  guardian  angel,  the 
devil,  no  doubt.  This  is  what  it  was  : 

" '  Take  that  girl  off  the  stage,  clothe  her  decently,  drill 
her  in  her  part  for  a  week  or  two— she's  a  clever  little  bag 
gage — take  her  back  to  Toronto,  and  pass  her  off  as  your 
daughter.  She's  got  the  beauty  and  grace  of  a  duchess, 
and  there's  more  than  one  soft-headed,  soft-hearted  fool 
among  the  fellows  there,  who  will  go  mad  over  her  black 
eyes,  and  be  ready  to  marry  her  out  of  hand  before  she's  a 
month  among  them.  There's  that  young  chap,  Caryll,  for 
instance — oh,  yes.  Gordon,  my  boy,  I  pitched  upon  you 


66  GORDON1  CARYLDS  STORY. 

even  then — he's  the  heir  to  one  of  the  finest  fortunes  in  the 
kingdom,  and  the  last  man  on  earth  likely  to  doubt  or  inves 
tigate.  The  thing's  worth  trying.  Of  course,  when  the  fish 
is  hooked /come  in  for  the  lion's  share.  Ecavte's  not  an 
unprofitable  amusement,  but  there  may  be  better  things  in 
this  wicked  world  even  than  ecarte. 

"  '  It  was  a  brilliant  idea — even  you  must  own  that.  I  lost 
no  time  in  carrying  it  out.  I  hunted  up  Rosamond  behind 
the  scenes.  Good  Ged !  such  scenes  !  and  there  and  then 
had  a  long  and  fatherly  talk  with  her.  She  gave  me  her 
history  frankly  enough  ;  she  had  no  parents,  no  friends  to 
speak  of,  no  relations.  She  never  had  had  a  father  so  far 
as  she  knew,  and  her  drunken  drab  of  a  mother  had  died 
two  years  before.  She  was  sixteen,  and  had  made  her 
debut  a  year  before,  under  the  friendly  auspices  of  a  negro 
minstrel  gentleman,  who  had  taught  her  to  strum  the  banjo 
and  play  upon  the  piano. 

"  '  I  said  nothing  of  my  plan  that  night.  I  slept  upon  it, 
and  found  it  rather  strengthened  than  otherwise  by  that 
process.  I  hunted  up  Mile.  Rosamond  (in  private  life  they 
called  her  Sally)  next  morning,  in  her  Bowery  attic,  and  laid 
my  plan  before  her.  Gad,  Caryll,  how  she  jumped  at  it ! 
Her  eyes  glittered  at  the  mention  of  the  fine  dresses  and 
gay  jewelry — she  had  ambition  beyond  her  sphere,  had 
devoured  a  great  deal  of  unwholesome  light  literature,  and 
was  equal  to  anything.  I  found  her  cleverer  even  than  I 
had  dared  to  hope — the  girl  had  been  more  or  less  educated 
at  a  public  school,  and  could  actually  talk  well.  The  negro 
minstrel  gentleman  thrashed  her  when  he  got  drunk  ;  she 
was  tired  of  her  life  and  Bohemian  associates,  to  call  them 
by  no  fouler  name,  of  this  dirty  Quartier  Latin  of  New 
York,  and  eager  and  ready  to  go. 

"  '  What  need  to  waste  words,  Caryll — the  thing  was  an 
accomplished  fact  in  three  weeks.  The  rest  you  know — • 
"we  came,  we  saw,  we  conquered,"  more's  the  pity — for 
you.  The  little  Bowery  actress  played  her  part  con  amore — • 
the  pretty  little  yellow-eyed  spider  wove  her  web,  and  the  big, 
foolish  fly  walked  headlong  in  at  first  sight.  You  married 
her!' 


GORDON  CARYLUS  STORY.  fy 

"  He  paused  a  moment,  and  motioned  me  to  give  him  his 
cordial.  The  clammy  dew  of  death  was  upon  his  face  already, 
his  voice  was  husky  and  gasping,  but  he  was  game  to  the  end 
and  would  finish.  I  held  the  drink  to  his  lips  in  a  stupid, 
dazed  sort  of  way,  far  too  stunned  to  realize  what  I  heard  as 
yet. 

"  '  You  married  her,  Gordon,'  he  went  on,  '  and — give  the 
devil  his  due — I  believe  she's  fond  of  you.  That  wasn't  in 
the  bond,  but  she  is,  and  her  efforts  of  late  days  to  have  me 
die  and  "  make  no  sign  "  were  worthy  a  better  cause.  But 
I  ain't  such  an  out-and-out  bad  'un  as  that,  Caryll — 'pon  my 
word  I  ain't ;  and  then,  money  can't  do  a  man  any  good 
when  he's  going  to  die.  So  I've  made  a  clean  breast  of  it, 
my  boy,  and  you  can  do  as  you  please.  You're  awfully 
spoony  on  her,  I  know,  and  if  you  like,  why,  say  nothing 
about  it ;  stick  to  her  through  thick  and  thin.  Other  men 
have  married  girls  like  Rosie — and  she's  fond  of  you,  as  I 
say,  poor  little  beggar,  and  you  can  take  her  to  England  and 
no  one  will  be  the  wiser.  The  fellows  here  won't  peach  ; 
they  know  it,  Caryll;  the  thing's  leaked  out  somehow, 
and—' 

"  He  stopped.  I  had  risen  to  my  feet.  I  don't  know 
what  he  saw  in  my  face,  but  he  held  up  both  hands  with  a 
shrill  cry  of  horror,  not  to  kill  him.  The  next  I  remember, 
I  was  out  in  the  black,  storm-beaten  street.  It  was  close 
upon  midnight.  At  that  hour  and  in  that  storm  there  was 
no  one  abroad  in  Toronto.  A  wheel  of  fire  seemed  crashing 
through  my  brain,  some  nameless,  awful  horror  hadfallen 
upon  me.  In  a  stupefied  way  I  was  conscious  of  that — of  no 
more.  And  then — all  in  an  instant  it  seemetl  to  me  the  night 
had  passed  and  the  morning  had  broken.  I  had  spent  hours 
in  the  freezing  streets.  With  the  morning  light  the  mists  of 
my  brain  seemed  to  clear,  and  the  full  horror  of  this  most 
horrible  thing  came  upon  me — this  unheard-of,  shameless 
deed. 

"The  girl  I  had  loved,  had  trusted,  had  married,  was  the 
vile  thing  he  made  her  out — the  offcast  of  the  New  York 
streets.  And  the  man  who  had  blindly  loved  her  she 
had  fooled  and  laughed  at  from  first  to  last !  A  very 


68  GORDON  CARYLUS  STORY. 

demon  of  fury  seemed  to  enter  me  then.  I  turned,  and 
went  home — with  but  one  resolve — to  have  her  life,  and 
then  end  my  own. 

"She  was  not  there.  She  had  seen  my  first  entrance ; 
she  had  stolen  down,  listened,  and  heard  all ;  she  had  gone 
back  to  her  room,  dressed  herself  for  the  street,  taken  all 
her  money  and  jewels,  and  fled.  They  told  me  all  this — 
three  or  four  of  our  fellows  were  there,  and  a  strange,  gloomy 
hush  lay  over  the  house.  Major  Lovell  was  dead. 

"After  that,  for  a  week  or  two,  all  is  chaotic.  I  did  not 
end  my  life — I  hardly  know  how  I  was  kept  from  that  last 
coward's  act — the  fact  remained.  They  buried  Lovell;  and 
in  a  quiet  way,  the  story  of  old  Lovell's  plot,  and  old 
Lovell's  daughter,  was  over  the  town. 

"  I  made  no  attempt  to  follow  her.  The  first  paroxysm 
of  fury  passed,  a  sullen,  dull  reaction  set  in.  I  filed  a 
suit  for  divorce.  A  mere  separation  would  not  do — every 
tie  must  be  cut  that  bound  me  to  her.  I  wrote  home,  tell 
ing  my  father  and  mother  all — all — hiding  nothing.  Then 
my  leave  came,  and  I  quitted  Toronto  forever.  Months 
passed.  I  lived  in  hiding  in  Montreal ;  then  the  decree  of 
divorce  was  granted — I  was  free  ! 

"  I  was  going  home.  Before  quitting  Canada  to  return 
no  more,  I  went  to  Quebec  to  visit  my  mother's  old  friend 
and  my  godfather,  General  Forrester.  My  story  had  rung 
through  Quebec,  of  course — was  it  not  ringing  over  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land?  But  the  kind  old  general 
made  no  mention  of  it,  and  insisted  upon  my  joining  them 
the  day  of  my  arrival  at  mess. 

"I  agreed.  ]*had  lived  a  hermit  life  for  five  months — I 
longed  to  see  familiar  faces  once  more.  At  the  mess  din 
ner,  while  jokes  and  stories  were  being  bandied  round,  some 
one  jovially  proposed  the  health  of  the  '  Sleeping  Beauty  of 
the  Enchanted  Palace,'  and  it  was  drunk  with  laughing  en 
thusiasm.  I  naturally  made  inquiry  concerning  this  cele 
brated  lady,  and  learned,  that  in  the  present  instance,  her 
mortal  name  was  Mrs.  Gordon,  a  youthful  widow  of  fabu 
lous  beauty  and  wealth,  who  had  come  to  Quebec  five 
months  before,  and  had  shut  herself  up  in  a  deserted  old 


GORDON  CARYLDS  STORY.  69 

rooK<*ry,  to  \reep  in  silence,  no  doubt,  over  the  dear  departed. 
Like  a  flash  the  truth  came  upon  me. 

" '  Most  thrilling  indeed,  Ercildoun,'  I  said  ;  '  here's 
towards  ner  r  tVhich  are  we  to  drink — belle  blonde,  or  jolie 
brunette  f ' 

"'  Brunette,  brunette!  a  picture  by  Titian.  Eyes  like 
sloes,  ana  hair  like  that  what's-his-name's  wing!'  shouted 
Ercildoun. 

"  The  toast  was  rapturously  taken  up.  I  was  as  hilarious 
as  any  of  mem.  There  are  times  when  thought  must  be 
drowned,  no  matter  how. 

"  Next  day  I  deliberately  hunted  her  down.  Her  servant 
was  pointed  out  to  me  on  the  street ;  I  followed  her.  And 
walking  up  and  down  by  the  river  side,  in  the  summer 
sunset,  I  came  full  upon  the  girl  who  had  been  my  wife. 

"  I  believe  at  first  she  imagined  I  had  come  to  kill  her. 
I  speedily  reassured  her.  What  need,  Lucia,  to  speak  of  that 
interview  ?  It  was  brief,  indeed.  I  have  looked  my  last, 
I  hope,  on  the  woman  who  was  for  four  months  my 
wife.  I  hope — and  yet,  so  surely  as  I  stand  here,  I  believe 
she  will  cross  my  path  again.  She  vowed  it,  as  we  parted 
that  night,  and  for  good  or  for  evil  she  is  one  to  keep  her 
word." 

The  story  was  told  rapidly,  at  times  almost  incoherently, 
but  told.  He  stood  beside  her  in  the  moonlight,  with  color 
less  face  and  eyes  full  of  passionate  despair. 

"  The  remainder  you  know,"  he  said,  after  a  pause  ;  "  the 
shame  that  broke  my  father's  heart  and  sent  him  to  his  grave 
— that  has  parted  my  mother  and  me  forever.  For  the  rest, 
whatever  fate  befalls  me  in  the  time  to  come,  it  is  a  fate  richly 
earned.  I  blame  my  mother  in  no  way.  Your  son  Eric,  or 
General  Forrester's  baby  daughter,  will  inherit  Caryllynne 
in  my  stead.  So  let  it  be.  I  go  from  here  to-night,  in  all 
likelihood  forever.  Before  the  week  is  out  I  shall  have  left 
England." 

She  had  turned  her  face  away  from  him,  but  he  knew 
that  her  tears  were  falling. 

"  Where  do  you  go  ?  "  she  asked. 

"To  India.     I  have  exchanged  into  a  regiment  ordered 


7Q  GORDON  CARYLVS  STORY. 

out  at  once.  When  one's  life  comes  to  an  end  at  home,  it 
is  well  to  be  of  some  service  abroad.  And  so,  Lucia,  my 
best  cousin,  you  at  least  will  bid  me  good-by  and  good 
speed  before  I  go." 

He  took  both  her  hands,  looking  down  into  the  fair, 
drooping  face. 

"  And  you,"  he  went  on,  "  are  you  happy,  Lucia  ?  You 
are  pale  and  frail  as  a  shadow.  Tell  me,  does  Dynely — ,"  he 
paused.  She  drew  her  hands  from  his  clasp,  her  face  still 
turned  away. 

"I  made  a  mercenary  marriage,"  she  answered,  sudden 
coldness  and  hardness  in  her  tone  ;  "  that  you  know.  All 
the  happiness  such  marriages  bring,  I  have.  While  I  possess 
my  boy,  my  Eric,  I  can  never  be  utterly  miserable,  Gor 
don  ! "  She  looked  up  suddenly,  her  fair  face  crimsoning. 
"You  knew  Lord- Dynely  before  his  marriage — you  were 
with  him  one  autumn  in  Ireland,  were  you  not  ?  Tell  me — " 
she  stopped. 

"  Well,  Lucia  ?     What  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  only  fancy,  but  I  have  fancied  there  is  some 
— some  secret  connected  with  that  Irish  summer.  It  is 
seven  years  ago — you  were  only  a  boy  at  the  time.  Still — " 
again  she  paused  confusedly. 

"Well?" 

"There  was  no  one,  no  girl,  no  peasant  girl  to  whom 
Lord  Dynely  paid  attention  that  summer  in  Gal  way  ?  I 
have  heard  a  rumor — "  for  the  third  time  she  broke  off,  afraid, 
it  seemed,  to  go  on. 

Her  cousin  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"  You  know  what  Lord  Dynely  is — was,  I  mean,  in  his 
bachelor  days,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  an  admirer  of  every  pretty 
girl  he  met,  whether  peeress  or  peasant.  There  were  many 
handsome  Spanish-looking  women  to  be  seen  that  long  ago 
summer  we  spent  fishing  at  the  Claddagh,  on  the  Galway 
coast.  His  lordship  admired  them  all,  I  am  bound  to  say  ; 
I  am  also  bound  to  say,  impartially,  so  far  as  I  could  see. 
Don't  take  fancies  into  your  head,  Lucia — facts  are  enough. 
And  now  I  must  go.  By  Jove  !  how  the  time  has  flown  !  I 
have  kept  you  here  an  unconscionable  time  in  the  falling  dew. 


GORDON  CARYLDS  STORY.  ji 

Good-by,  Lucia,  keep  a  green  place  in  your  memory  for  the 
black  sheep  of  the  flock.  Kiss  little  Eric  for  me.  Once 
more,  good-by." 

Holding  her  hands  in  his,  he  bent  do\vn  and  touched 
her  cheek.  She  broke  suddenly  into  a  passionate  sob. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,  cousin,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you 
go!" 

He  smiled. 

"  It  is  best  so,"  he  said. 

He  dropped  her  hands,  turned  with  the  words,  walked 
rapidly  away,  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


HOW   LORD   VISCOUNT  DYNELY   DIED. 

)ALF  an  hour  had  passed  away,  and  still  Lady 
Dynely  paced  slowly  where  her  cousin  had  left 
her,  heedless  of  falling  dew,  her  thin  dinner-dress 
damp  and  heavy  already  in  the  night.  In  the 
days  that  were  gone  she  had  been  very  fond  of  her  boy 
cousin,  three  years  her  junior  in  actual  years,  twenty  in 
worldly  wisdom  and  judgment.  There  had  never  been  any 
thought  of  love  or  love-making,  marrying  or  giving  in  mar 
riage,  between  these  two  ;  she  had  given  Viscount  Dynely 
her  hand  of  her  own  free  will,  and  yet,  the  sharpest,  keenest 
pang  of  actual  jealousy  she  had  ever  felt,  she  had  felt  when 
she  first  heard  of  Gordon  Caryll's  marriage.  Not  a  very 
fierce  pang,  though,  after  all — it  might  have  been  said  of 
her  as  of  Lady  Jane,  in  the  poem  : 

"  Her  pulse  is  calm,  milk-white  her  skin  ; 
She  has  not  blood  enough  to  sin." 

It  had  been  considered  a  very  brilliant  match,  the  match  of 
the  season  indeed,  when  Lucia  Paget  won  Alexis,  Viscount 
Dynely  and  twentieth  Baron  Camperdown.  She  had  been 
taken  up  to  London  at  eighteen,  and  presented  by  her  kins 
woman,  the  Countess  of  Haldane.  She  was  tall,  slim  and 
white,  fair  and  fragile  as  a  lily,  "a  penniless  lass  wi'  a  lang 
pedigree" — a  trifle  insipid  to  some  tastes,  but  she  suited 
Lord  Dynely.  He  came  home  from  a  yachting  cruise  around 
Norway  and  the  Hebrides,  presented  himself  suddenly  in 
Vanity  Fair,  the  most  desirable  prize  of  the  mall,  with  man 
sions  and  estates  in  four  counties,  a  villa  at  Ryde,  a  shoot 
ing-box  in  the  Highlands,  and  an  income  that  flowed  in 


HO IV  LORD    VISCOUNT  DYNELY  DIED.          73 

like  a  perennial  golden  river.  He  was  a  prize  that  had 
long  been  angled  for  (his  noble  lordship  was  in  his  five-and- 
fortieth  year),  maids  and  matrons  had  put  on  their  war  paint, 
and  set  their  wigwams  in  order,  long  and  many  a  day  ago, 
for  him.  But  in  vain  ;  his  scalp-lock  hung  at  no  belt.  He 
admired  all,  ballerinas,  as  a  rule,  more  than  baronesses, 
actresses  more  than  duchesses.  But  his  day  came  at  last ; 
he  saw  Lucia  Pager,  by  no  means  the  beauty  of  the  season, 
and  after  his  own  impetuous  fashion,  where  his  own  gratifi 
cation  was  concerned,  threw  up  the  sponge  to  Fate  at  once, 
and  surrendered  at  discretion.  He  proposed,  was  accepted, 
and  the  wedding-day  named,  before  Vanity  Fair  could  re 
cover  its  breath.  It  was  the  wonder  of  the  day — that  pale, 
insipid  nonentity — that  blase,  fastidious,  worn-out  roue — 
What  did  he  see  in  her  ? 

"  There  were  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
Who  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

But  he  had  passed  them  all  by?  and  thrown  the  handkerchief 
at  the  indifferent  feet  of  this  pale-haired  lass.  Before  the 
end  of  the  season  they  were  married. 

He  was  very  much  enamored  of  his  bride,  there  no  was 
denying  that.  Fickle,  in  his  fancies,  to  a  proverb,  he  was 
yet  loyal  here.  He  took  her  over  the  Continent  for  a  year, 
then  returned  to  England,  with  them  "  little  Eric  ;"  and 
Lord  Viscount  Dynely  was  the  fondest  of  fathers  as  well  as 
the  most  devoted  of  husbands.  But  from  the  birth  of  his 
son  a  change  came  over  him.  He  took  a  habit  of  falling 
into  moody,  darksome  reveries,  he  dropped  mysterious  and 
unpleasant  hints  of  some  wrong-doing  in  the  past,  he  spoke 
gloomily  of  his  infant  heir  and  some  sin,  sinned  against  //////. 
Lady  Dynely  grew  pale  as  she  listened — it  was  no  common 
wrong-doing  of  a  man  of  the  world  of  which  he  hinted — it 
was  something  that  might  influence  the  future  of  his  son,  of 
herself — some  crime  against  them  both.  He  spoke  a 
woman's  name  in  his  disturbed,  remorse-haunted  slumbers — 
"  Maureen  " — his  wife  could  catch.  What  did  it  mean  ? 
She  had  never  loved  her  husband,  she  had  always  been  a 
little  afraid  of  him — she  grew  more  and  more  afraid  of  him 
4 


J4          HOW  LORD    VISCOUNT  DYNELY  DIED. 

as  the  years  went  on.  Years  did  go  on.  Eric  was  five  ;  the 
secret,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  Lord  Dynely's  secret  still. 
Only  once  he  had  said  to  her : 

"Lucia,  if  I  die  before  you,  I  have  something  to  tell 
you  that  you  won't  like  to  hear.  People  always  make  death 
bed  confessions,  don't  they?  On  the  principle,  I  suppose, 
that  come  what  may,  they  are  past  hurting.  I  wonder  if 
they  sleep  any  easier  in  their  six  feet  of  clay,  for  owning  up  ? 
I'll  write  it  down,  and  leave  it  sealed  with  my  will,  and  then 
if  I'm  cut  off  in  a  hurry  (and  it  is  an  interesting  trait  in  the 
Dynely  succession  that  we  always  are  cut  orT  in  a  hurry),  it 
will  come  to  light  all  the  same.  There's  one  consolation," 
he  said  with  a  short,  reckless  laugh,  "  you  never  cared  over 
and  above  for  me — it  was  the  title  you  married  and  the  set 
tlements,  and  you'll  have  them,  you  know,  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter,  so  you  won't  break  your  heart." 

He  had  whistled  to  his  dogs  and  walked  moodily  off,  say 
ing  no  more  ;  and  his  wife,  listening  with  pale  cheeks  and 
dilated  eyes,  asked  no  questions.  She  was  not  strong, 
either  mentally,  morally,  or  physically  ;  she  shrank  from 
pain  of  all  sorts,  with  almost  cowardly  fear.  If  Lord  Dynely 
had  wicked  secrets,  she  wanted  to  hear  none  of  them — she 
desired  no  confessions — it  was  cruel  of  him  to  talk  of  mak 
ing  them.  As  he  had  kept  his  dreadful  masculine  secrets  in 
life,  let  him  keep  them  in  death. 

She  stood  vaguely  thinking  this  where  Gordon  Caryll  had 
left  her,  looking  like  some  spirit  of  the  moonlight  in  her 
white  robes,  her  light,  floating  hair,  and  colorless  face.  And 
even  while  she  thought  it,  the  messenger  was  drawing  near 
to  summon  her  to  hear  that  secret  told. 

The  stable  clock  chiming  loudly  eleven  awoke  her  from 
her  thoughtful  trance.  She  started.  How  late  it  was,  how 
chilly  it  had  grown  !  She  shrank  with  the  first  sensation  she 
had  felt  of  cold  and  damp,  and  turned  to  go.  But  she 
stopped,  for  the  sylvan  silence  of  the  summer  night  was 
loudly  broken  by  the  ringing  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  dash 
ing  up  the  avenue.  Was  it  Gordon  coming  back  ?  Little 
things  disturbed  her — her  heart  fluttered  as  she  listened. 
Hoi  se  and  rider  came  in  view ;  the  man  espied  her  and 


HOW  LORD    VISCOUNT  DYNELY  DIED.          75 

vaulted  oft  No,  this  small,  middle-aged  man,  was  net  her 
tall  cousin,  but  Mr.  Squills,  the  village  apothecary. 

••  My  lady  !  " 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  bowing  before  her.  In  the 
moonlight  my  lady  could  see  the  frightened  look  the  man's 
face  wore. 

••What  is  it?  "she  asked. 

"  Oh,  my  lady — I  don't  want  to  alarm  you,  I'm  sure— 
they  told  me  to  break  it  to  you,  but  it's  so  hard  to  break 
things.  There's  been  an  accident,  my  lady.  The  9.50  ex 
press  from  Plymouth,  and  don't  let  me  frighten  you,  my 
lady — his  lordship  was  in  it,  and " 

She  laid  her  hand  over  her  heart,  turning  for  a  momem 
sick  and  faint.  Then  she  rallied. 

"  Lord  Dynely  was  on  that  train  ?  There  was  an  acci 
dent,  you  say.  Was  he '' 

"  Oh,  my  lady,  prepare  yourself.  It — it's  a  dreadful  thing 
to  break  things  to " 

"  Was  Lord  Dynely  hurt  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  very  badly  hurt,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"  Dangerously  ?  " 

"  We're  afraid  so,  my  lady.  Mr.  Glauber  is  with  him,  and 
they've  telegraphed  to  London  for  Doctor — " 

"  He  is  alive  ?"  she  interrupted,  her  voice  sharp  with  hor 
ror  and  pain. 

"  Alive,  my  lady,  but — it  is  best  you  should  know  the 
truth — he  won't  be  alive  by  morning.  The  clergyman  is 
with  him,  but  he  calls,  my  lady,  continually  for  you." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  At  the  inn,  in  the  village — the  *  Kiddle-a-wink.'  And, 
my  lady,  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose." 

She  turned  from  him  and  ran  to  the  house.  On  the  way 
she  met  one  of  the  grooms,  and  ordered  the  carriage  at  once. 
She  fled  up  to  her  room,  threw  a  dark  mantle  over  her  white 
evening-dress,  put  on  her  bonnet  with  trembling  fingers,  and 
turned  to  depart.  A  sudden  thought  came  to  her — she 
turned  into  an  adjoining  room — the  nursery,  where  her  boy 
lay  asleep. 

The  night-light   burns   low;  he   lies  in  his  downy,  lace 


76         HOW  LORD    VISCOUNT  DYNELY  DIED. 

draped  bed,  a  lovely  baby-vision  of  health  and  beauty, 
Flushed,  dimpled,  his  golden  curls  falling  over  the  pillow,  a 
smile  on  the  rosy  lips — he  is  a  sight  to  make  any  mother's 
heart  leap.  She  stoops  and  kisses  him  with  passionate  love. 
"Oh,  my  baby,  my  angel!"  she  whispers,  "you  are  all  I 
have  on  earth.  While  I  live,  no  harm,  that  I  can  avert,  will 
ever  come  to  you." 

Then  she  flits  out  of  the  room — out  of  the  house.  The 
carriage  is  waiting,  and  in  a  moment  more  she  is  rapidly 
whirling  through  the  still,  white  midnight  to  the  village  inn 
where  her  husband  lies  dying. 

They  lead  her  to  the  room.  Physician  and  priest  fall  back, 
and  give  way  to  the  wife.  The  wounded  man  lies  propped 
by  pillows,  his  head  bandaged,  his  face  awfully  bloodless  and 
ghastly  in  the  wan  light.  She  has  heard  no  details  of  the  acci 
dent,  she  has  asked  none.  He  is  dying — all  is  said  in  that. 

His  eyes  light  as  they  turn  on  her,  but  his  brow  is  frown 
ing. 

"  Send  them  all  away,"  are  his  first  words. 

She  motions  them  out  of  the  room.  She  sinks  on  her 
knees  by  the  bedside.  Her  dark  drapery  slips  off;  her  white 
dress,  her  soft  laces,  her  fair,  floating  hair,  seem  strangely 
to  contradict  the  idea  of  death.  She  is  trembling  from  head 
to  foot — her  teeth  chatter  with  nervous  horror,  her  eyes  fix 
themselves,  all  wild  and  dilated,  upon  his  face.  She  never 
speaks  a  word. 

He  lies  and  looks  at  her — a  long,  steadfast,  frowning 
gaze. 

"  I  am  dying,"  he  says  ;  "  you  know  it.  You  never  cared 
for  me — no,  never — not  even  in  your  wedding  hour.  You 
never  cared  for  me — why  should  I  care  for  you?  Why 
should  I  hesitate  to  tell  you  the  truth  ?  " 

It  has  been  the  thorn  in  his  rose-crowned  life — this  fact, 
that  the  portionless  girl  he  married,  never  gave  him  her 
heart. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  he  says,  still  with  that  dull,  frowning  gaze, 
"  I  was  too  great  a  coward  ever  to  ask  you  before — tell  me 
now — you  married  the  rank  and  the  rent-roll,  not  the 
man  ?  " 


HOW  LORD    VISCOUNT  DYNELY  DIED.          77 

11 1  did  wrong,"  she  says,  huskily,  "  but  I  have  tried  to  do 
my  duty  as  your  wife.  Forgive  me,  Alexis." 

"Ah  !"  he  answers  bitterly,  "we  have  both  something  to 
forgive — it  makes  us  quits.  I  have  been  a  coward,  a  coward 
to  you,  a  coward  to  her.  It  is  hard  to  say  which  has  been 
wronged  most.  But  you  shall  hear  the  truth  now,  and  you 
shall  do  as  you  see  fit  after.  Draw  near." 

She  bends  closer  above  him.  He  takes  her  hand  in  his 
cold  fingers,  and  whispers,  hoarsely  and  brokenly,  his  death 
bed  confession. 

Half  an  hour  passes,  an  hour,  another,  and  still  from  that 
closed  room  there  is  no  sound.  It  is  very  strange.  Mr. 
Glauber,  the  doctor,  and  Mr.  Texton,  the  rector,  think  un 
easily,  looking  at  their  watches,  outside.  It  is  quite  impos 
sible  Lord  Dynely,  in  his  fast-sinking  state,  can  be  talking 
all  this  time — impossible,  also,  that  he  can  have  fallen  asleep. 
Presently  Mr.  Texton  takes  heart  of  grace,  and  taps  at  the 
door.  There  is  no  reply.  He  taps  again.  Still  silence. 
He  opens  the  door  and  goes  in.  Lord  Dynely  has  fallen 
back  among  his  pillows,  dead,  that  frown  forever  frozen  on 
his  face ;  my  lady  still  kneels  by  the  bedside — as  rigid,  as 
upright,  as  white,  as  cold,  as  though  turned  to  stone. 

"My  lady!"  She  does  not  speak  or  stir.  "My  dear 
Lady  Dynely,"  the  rector  says,  in  an  unutterably  shocked 
tone. 

She  moves  for  the  first  time,  and  lifts  two  sightless  eyes  to 
his  face.  He  holds  out  his  arms,  for  she  sways  unsteadily, 
and  catches  her,  as  without  word  or  sound  she  slips  heavily 
back,  and  faints  away. 


PART  SECOND. 
CHAPTER   I. 

IN   THE    ROYAL   ACADEMY. 

| HE  brilliant  noontide  of  a  brilliant  May  day  was 
passed — all  London  looked  bustling  and  bright  un 
der  a  sky  as  cloudless  as  that  of  Italy.  In  Trafal 
gar  Square  there  was  a  mighty  gathering  of  car 
riages,  an  army  of  coachmen  and  footmen  in  liveries,  of  all 
sorts  and  colors,  for  it  was  the  opening  day  of  the  Royal 
Academy. 

The  rooms  were  full — full  to  repletion,  filled  with  a  jost 
ling  crowd  of  well-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  then 
"  a  mob  is  a  mob  though  composed  of  bishops."  Languid, 
dilettante-looking  swells,  with  eye-glasses ;  painters  with 
long  hair,  and  picturesque  faces  ;  art  critics,  book  and  pen 
cil  in  hand  ;  academicians,  receiving  congratulations  ;  picture 
dealers,  marking  the  quarry  on  which  they  meant  presently 
to  swoop ;  stately  dowagers,  sweeping  their  silken  trains 
over  the  crimson  drugget ;  slim,  young  English  girls,  with 
milk-and-rose  complexions  and  gilded  hair. 

The  clock  of  St.  Martin' s-in-t lie-fields  was  striking  four  as 
there  entered  two  ladies  and  a  gentleman,  who  moved  slowly 
through  the  swaying  throng,  and  who,  even  there,  at 
tracted  considerable  attention.  One  of  the  ladies  was  ap 
proaching  middle  age,  a  fair,  pale,  pensive,  pass'ee  looking 
woman,  with  a  stamp  of  high  rank  on  every  faded  feature,  in 
every  careless  gesture.  She  was  not  the  attraction.  The 
escort  was  a  very  tall,  very  broad-shouldered,  very  powerful- 


IN  THE   ROYAL   ACADEMY.  79 

looking  young  man,  muscular  Christianity  personified,  with 
a  certain  military  air,  that  bespoke  his  calling,  a  thick,  red 
dish  beard  and  mustache,  reddish,  close-cropped  hair,  and 
two  light,  good-humored  eyes.  He  was  not  the  attraction. 
Terry  Dennison's  face  was  as  well  known  about  town  as 
Landseer's  couchant  lions  around  Nelson's  pillar,  in  the 
square  beyond.  It  was  the  third  of  the  trio,  a  girl,  tall  and 
slender,  and  very  graceful,  with  a  figure  that  was  rarely  per 
fect,  and  a  way  of  carrying  herself  that  was  altogether  impe 
rial.  A  dark  beauty,  with  a  warm,  creamy,  colorless  skin, 
two  vivid,  hazel  eyes,  a  profusion  of  hazel  hair,  arranged  a  la 
mode,  a  handsome,  decided,  square-cut  mouih,  and  a  gen 
eral  air  of  imperious  command  that  said  to  all 

"  Incedo  Regina  ! 
I  move  a  queen." 

She  was  dressed  en  passant,  as  it  were,  with  a  careless  sim 
plicity  that  was  the  perfection  of  high  art.  An  Indian  mus 
lin  robe,  a  scarf  of  black  lace,  caught  up  on  one  shoulder 
with  a  knot  of  yellow  roses — on  her  head  a  touch  of  point- 
lace,  with  just  one  yellow  rose  over  the  ear,  and  in  her  pearl- 
kidded  hand  a  bunch  of  the  same  scented  yellow  roses. 

A  covey  of  idle,  elegant  dandies  of  the  Foreign  Office,  and 
guardsmen,  lounging  in  one  of  the  door-ways,  r3ut  up  their 
glasses  and  turned  to  look  again,  roused  for  the  moment  al 
most  to  interest. 

"  Something  new  in  Vanity  Fair,"  one  said,  "and  the  best 
thing  I've  seen  this  season.  Know  who  she  is,  any  one  ?  " 

No  one  knew. 

"  Altogether  new,  as  you  say,  Danby.  Jove  !  what  a  regal 
air !  There  is  nothing  on  the  walls — not  a  nymph  or  god 
dess  of  them  all,  with  a  lovelier  face.  Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  Her  companion  is  Lady  Dynely,"  remarked  a  third. 

"  And  her  escort  is  Terry  Dennison.  He  has  placed  them 
before  the  picture  of  the  year,  that  thing  by  Locksley,  and 
has  left  them.  Here  he  comes.  I  say,  Dennison  !  who  is 
she  ?  " 

"  Who  is  who  ?  asked  Mr.  Dennison,  the  sandy-haired  and 
whiskered  young  man,  approaching.  "  '  Who  is  she  ?  '  isn't 


8c  IN  THE   ROYAL  ACADEMY. 

that  the  question  the  cynical  old  French  party  always  asked, 
when  any  fellow  he  knew  came  to  grief?  " 

"  Don't  be  analytical,  Terry,  it  isn't  your  metier.  Who  is 
that  lady  you  accompany  ?  Handsomest  thing  out." 

"That,"  answered  Terry,  thoughtfully  stroking  his  beard, 
"  is  my  Lady  Dynely  ;  and  where  have  you  kept  your  eyes 
all  these  years  not  to  know  it — " 

"That  will  do.  We  don't  want  chaff.  Who  is  that 
girl  ?  " 

"  All  yellow  roses  and  black  lace,  like  a  picture  by  Tit 
ian,"  another  murmured. 

"  Who  is  she,  Terry  ?  "  chorus  all. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Terry,  opening  his  light  blue  eyes  with  an  in 
nocent  -air,  " that's  what  you  mean,  is  it?  That  girl  is 
France  Forrester." 

"  France  ?  Named  after  the  dominion  of  his  Imperial 
Majesty,  Nap  the  Third?" 

"  Her  name  is  France — Frances,  if  you  like  it  better,"  an 
swered  calmly  Mr.  Dennison. 

"  But  who  is  she  ?  Who  is  she,  Terry  ?  She's  new  to  all 
of  us,  and  the  handsomest  debutante  of  the  season.  Open 
the  mysteries  a  little,  old  man  ;  and  end  our  agonizing  sus 
pense." 

"There's  nothing  mysterious  about  it,"  responded  Terry 
Dennison  with  a  suppressed  yawn  ;  "  she  is  France  Forres 
ter,  as  I  say,  only  child  and  heiress  of  the  late  General 
Forrester,  distant  connection  of  Lady  Dynely,  and  adopted 
daughter  and  heiress  of  Mrs.  Caryll,  of  Caryllynne.  '  To 
her  that  hath  shall  be  given.'  I  have  spoken  !  " 

"  Like  an  oracle.     Go  on — tell  us  more." 

"  There's  no  more.  Her  mother  a  French  Canadian, 
from  whom  mademoiselle  inherits  her  gypsy  skin  and  beaux 
yeux,  died  when  she  was  six.  Her  father  placed  her  in 
a  Montreal  convent,  and  there  she  lived  until  she  was  fifteen. 
Then  he  died,  left  her  a  fortune,  and  made  Mrs.  Caryl!  her 
guardian.  That  was  three  years  ago ;  and  if  your  limited 
knowledge  ot  arithmetic  will  permit  you  to  add  three  to  fif 
teen  you  will  come  at  Miss  Forrester's  age.  Mrs.  Caryll, 
then  and  at  present  in  Rome,  had  her  ward  conveyed  to  the 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY.  8 1 

Eternal  City.  Until  two  months  ago  she  moved  and  had  her 
being  there — now  she  has  come  over,  to  come  out  under  the 
auspices  of  Lady  Dynely.  I  wish  you  fellows  wouldn't  make 
me  talk  so  much,"  says  Terry,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  injury, 
"the  thermometer  is  high,  and  1  ain't  used  to  it." 

Then  Mr.  Dennison  strolls  away,  and  the  four  men  from 
the  F.  O.  stand  and  gaze  with  languid  interest  at  the  Cana 
dian-Roman  beauty  and  heiress. 

"Safe  to  make  a  hit,"  one  said  ;  "haven't  seen  anything 
so  thoroughbred  for  three  seasons.  What  with  madem 
oiselle's  beauty  and  grace,  and  that  poise  of  the  head,  and 
two  fortunes  tacked  to  her  train,  and  her  twenty  quarterings 
(they're  an  awfully  old  family,  the  Forresters),  she  ought  to 
make  a  brilliant  match  before  the  season  ends." 

"Ah  !  I  don't  know,"  another  responded,  "it  doesn't  al 
ways  follow.  The  favorite  doesn't  always  win  the  Derby. 
Mrs.  Caryll's  heiress — him-m  !  I  say,  Castlemain  !  You 
ought  to  know — wasn't  there  a  son  in  that  family  once  ?  " 

"  Gordon  Caryll — very  fine  fellow — knew  him  at  Oxford," 
Castlemain  answered,  "  commission  in  the  Rifles — old  story 
that — sixteen  years  ago — all  over  and  forgotten  for  cen 
turies." 

"Dead?" 

"  Don't  know — all  the  same — extinct.  Made  a  horrible 
mesalliance  out  there  in  Canada — scandal — divorce — ex 
changed — went  to  India — never  heard  of  more.  Sic  transit 
— fate  of  all  of  us  by  and  by.  Deuced  slow  this,"  strug 
gling  with  a  yawn  ;  "I  say — let's  hook  it." 

The  quartette  move  on,  others  take  their  place,  and  the 
men,  one  and  all,  turn  for  a  second  look  at  the  fair,  proud- 
looking  beauty.  With  Lady  Dynely,  she  still  stands  where 
Mr.  Dennison  has  left  them,  gazing  at  the  picture  that  has 
made  the  hit  of  the  year.  It  is  by  an  artist  unknown  to 
fame  and  Trafalgar  Square — it  is  marked  in  the  catalogue 
"No.  556— How  TJie  Night  Fell." 

It  is  not  an  English  scene.  Tall,  dark  hills  in  the  back 
ground  lift  pine-crowned  heads  to  the  sky,  clumps  of  cedar, 
and  tamarac,  and  spruce,  painted  with  pre-Raphaelite  fidelity, 
dot  these  dark  hill-sides.  A  broad  river,  with  the  last  red 
4* 


82  IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 

light  of  dying  day  glinting  along  the  water,  and  over  hill-side 
and  tree-top  and  flowing  river,  the  gray  darkness  of  coming 
night  shutting  down.  On  the  river-side  two  figures  stand,  a 
man  and  a  woman.  One  red  gleam  from  the  western  sky 
falls  full  upon  the  woman's  face,  a  face  darkly  beautiful,  but 
all  white  and  drawn  with  woman's  utmost  woe.  Passion 
ate  despair  looks  out  of  her  wild  eyes  at  the  man  who 
stands  before  her.  Her  hands  are  outstretched  in  agoni/ced 
appeal.  For  the  man,  he  stands  and  looks  at  her,  one  hand 
slightly  upraised  as  if  waving  her  off.  His  face  is  partly 
averted,  but  you  can  guess  the  hatred  that  face  shows.  You 
see  that  her  doom  is  sealed  beyond  redemption.  Over 
all,  the  creeping  night  is  darkening  land,  and  river,  and  sky. 

The  two  ladies  gaze  in  silence  for  a  time — Lady  Dynely 
looking  weary  and  rather  bored — Miss  Forrester's  fine  eyes 
bright  with  admiration.  She  is  new  to  general  society  as 
yet,  and  when  eye,  or  ear,  or  heart  are  delighted,  the  expres 
sive  face  shows  it. 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  she  says  in  a  low  voice  ;  "  there  is  noth 
ing  like  it  in  the  rooms.  Look  at  that  wonderful  effect  of 
light  on  the  woman's  face,  and  slanting  along  the  river,  and 
the  gray  darkness  that  you  can  almost  feel  there  beyond. 
Those  trees  are  tamarac — can  it  be  a  Canadian  scene. 
*  How  The  Night  Fell,'  "  she  reads  from  her  catalogue. 
"  Lady  Dynely,  I  must  know  the  painter  of  that  picture." 

"  My  dear  France  ! " 

"  '  G.  Locksley.'  H-m-m — a  new  candidate,  probably. 
Certainly  I  must  know  him.  In  Rome,  we — Mrs.  Caryll  and 
I — made*  a  point  of  taking  up  every  young  artist  who  ap 
peared.  She  was  known  as  the  patroness  of  art.  Our  rooms 
un  our  art-reception  nights  used  to  be  crowded.  The  man 
who  painted  that  is  a  genius." 

"  Mrs.  Caryll  was  the  patroness  of  struggling  artists  for 
this  reason,  I  fancy — her  son  was  a  devotee  of  art  once  him 
self,  and  studied  for  a  year  in  Rome  before  entering  the 
army." 

"  Her  son,"  Miss  Forrester  repeated  dreamily,  "  Gordon 
Caryll.  Perhaps  so,  she  very  seldom  spoke  of  him,  poor  fel- 
iow.  VVha*  a.  v<-ry  striking  scene  it  is  !  "  looking  again  at  the 


IN   THE  ROYAL   ACADEMY.  3-3 

picture  through  her  closed  hand  ;  "  there  is  a  fascination  for 
me  in  the  anguish  and  despair  of  that  woman's  face.  A 
beautiful  face,  too.  I  wonder  if  the  artist  painted  his  picture 
from  life  ?  " 

"  My  dear  France,  no.  They  are  all  imaginary,  are  they 
not — suggested  by  books,  or  something  of  that  kind  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  don't  know.  Artists,  and  poets,  and  novelists,  all 
turn  their  sorrows  to  account  in  these  latter  days,"  says  Miss 
Forrester  cynically  ;  "  they  paint  their  woes  in  oil  and  water 
colors,  write  them  in  hexameters,  and  make  money  of  them. 
Like  Lord  Byron,  if  they  weep  in  private,  they  certainly 
wipe  their  eyes  on  the  public." 

"  My  dear  child,"  says  Lady  Dynely,  looking  shocked, 
"  where  have  you  learned  your  cynicisms  so  young  ?  " 

Miss  Forrester  laughed. 

"I  am  but  a  debutante,"  she  answered  gayly,  "not  come 
out  yet  before  the  foot-lights  ;  but  I  have  seen  a  deal  of  life, 
I  assure  you,  behind  the  scenes.  Here  comes  Terry."  She 
glances  over  her  shoulder.  "  If  the  artist  of  *  How  the  Night 
Fell,'  be  present,  Terry  shall  fetch  him  up  and  introduce  him." 

"But,  France — " 

Miss  Forrester  laughs  again — a  very  sweet,  low  laugh. 
She  is  unlike  most  English  girls — in  fact,  she  is  not  an  Eng 
lish  girl.  She  has  her  French  mother's  blood  and  vivacity, 
as  well  as  her  dark  complexion,  and  dark  eyes,  with  some 
thing  of  the  frank-spirited  independence  of  an  American  girl. 
With  these  and  her  late  Roman  experiences,  she  is  a  bundle 
of  contradictions,  and  a  bewilderingly  charming  whole. 

"  But,  Lady  Dynely,"  she  repeats,  "  I  warned  you  fairly 
in  Rome  what  you  might  expect  when  you  consented  to  be 
come  a  martyr,  and  bring  rne  out.  I  have  had  my  own  way 
ever  since  I  was  born,  and  always  mean  to — if  I  can.  I 
have  lived  in  a  perpetual  atmosphere  of  artists  for  the  past 
three  years — the  long-haired  Brotherhood  of  the  Brush  have 
been  '  the  playmates  of  my  youth — the  friends  of  my 
bosom.'  "  Here,  catching  sight  of  Lady  Dynely's  horrified 
face,  Miss  Forrester  breaks  off  and  laughs  again,  the  sweet 
est,  frankest,  merriest  laugh,  that  ever  came  from  rosy  lips. 

"What's  the  joke?"  asks  Mr.  Dennison,  sauntering  up ; 


84  IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  in  that  black,  glowering  man,  and 
that  woman  of  the  woful  countenance  to  excite  your  ill- 
timed  merriment,  Miss  P'orrester." 

"Terry,"  says  Miss  Forrester,  "  do  you  know  the  ar 
tist?" 

"  Miss  Forrester,  it  is  the  proud  boast  of  my  life  that  I 
know  every  one.  Locksley  ?  Yes,  I  know  him — he's  in 
the  rooms  now,  by  the  same  token.  Look  yonder — talk 
ing  to  Sir  Hugh  Lankraik,  the  great  academician — very  tall, 
very  fair  man.  Crops  his  hair,  and  doesn't  look  like  an 
artist — more  of  the  heavy-dragoon  cut  than  anything  else. 
See  him?" 

"  Yes,"  the  young  lady  answered.  She  saw,  as  Terry 
Dennison  said,  a  very  tall,  very  fair  man,  with  blonde  hair 
and  beard,  a  complexion  fair  once,  tanned  to  golden  brown, 
two  grave,  gray  eyes,  and  a  thoughtful,  rather  worn,  face — a 
man  looking  every  day  of  his  seven-and-thirty  years.  Not  a 
particularly  handsome  face,  perhaps,  but  a  face  most  women 
liked.  Whether  Miss  Forrester  liked  it  or  not,  who  was  to 
tell? 

"  Not  bad  looking  ?  "  commented  Terry  interrogatively. 
Mr.  Dennison  belonged  to  that  large  nil  admirari  class  to 
whom  the  acme  of  all  praise  of  mortal  beauty  is  "  not  bad 
looking." 

"  Women  admire  him,  I  believe,"  pursues  Dennison, 
"  but  he  rather  cuts  the  sex.  I  give  you  my  word,  he 
might  be  the  pet  of  the  petticoats  all  this  season  after  that 
picture,  but  he  won't.  Lives  for  his  art — capital  fellow,  you 
know,  but  doesn't  care  for  women." 

"  Interesting  misogynist !  Bring  him  up  here,  Terry,  and 
introduce  him." 

"  France  !  " 

"  Is  your  hearing  deficient,  Mr.  Dennison  ?  I  said,  bring 
him  up  here  and  introduce  him." 

"  Now,  France,  what  has  that  poor  fellow  ever  done  to 
you  ?  He  cuts  the  fair  sex,  and  is  a  happy  and  successful 
man  !  Do  let  him  be.  I  know  the  havoc  you  made  among 
those  painting  fellows  in  Rome,  but  you  can't  expect  to  do 
in  London  as  the  Romans  do.  She  made  it  a  point — I  give 


TN  THR  ROYAL  ACADEMY.  35 

you  my  word,  Lady  Dynely — of  breaking  the  heart  of  every 
young  artist  in  the  Eternal  City,  and  now  she  wants  to  add 
poor  Locksley,  as  harmless  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed,  to  her 
f  noble  army  of  martyrs  ! '  " 

"  Little  Terry  Dennison  !  will  you  hold  your  tongue  and 
fetch  Mr.  Locksley  here  ?  " 

Miss  Forrester  lifts  her  gold-mounted  eye-glass  and  looks 
at  him.  Miss  Forrester's  brilliant,  hazel  eyes  are  not,  in  the 
slightest  degree,  short-sighted ;  she  merely  wears  this  eye 
glass  as  a  warrior  his  sword.  When  she  particularly  wishes 
to  annihilate  any  one,  she  lifts  it,  stares  speechlessly  for  five 
seconds,  and  the  deed  is  done.  Mr.  Dennison  knows  the 
gesture  of  old,  and  shows  the  white-feather  at  once. 

"  Mr.  Locksley' s  picture  pleases  me.  I  wish  to  know 
Mr.  Locksley." 

"Yes'm,  please'm,"  says  Terry,  meekly;  "  hanything 
else?" 

"  Mr.  Locksley  has  ceased  talking  to  Sir  Hugh.  Lady 
Dynely  admires  '  How  The  Night  Fell,'  and  does  him  the 
honor  of  permitting  him  to  be  presented.  You  understand, 
little  Terry  ?  " 

Terry  Dennison,  from  the  altitude  of  his  six  feet,  looks 
down  upon  his  dashing  little  superior  officer,  with  a  comical 
light  in  his  blue  eyes,  laughs  under  his  orange  beard,  and 
turns  to  obey. 

"  As  the  queen  wills,"  he  says ;  "  but,  alas !  poor 
Yorick  !  He  never  did  me  any  harm — Locksley,  I  mean, 
not  Yorick.  It  is  rather  hard  /  should  be  chosen,  as  the 
enemy  to  lead  him  to  his  doom."  He  makes  his  way  to 
where  the  painter  of  the  popular  picture  stands,  and  taps 
him  on  the  shoulder.  "  If  you  are  not  done  to  death  with 
congratulations  already,  Mr.  Locksley,  permit  me  to  add 
mine.  There  is  nothing  else  on  the  walls  half-a-quarter  so 
pood.  Lady  Dynely  is  positively  entranced,  has  been  stand 
ing  there  for  the  last  half  hour.  Will  you  do  her  the  pleas 
ure  of  coming  and  being  presented  ?  " 

"  Lady  Dynely  !"  The  artist  paused  for  a  moment  with 
an  irresolute  look,  and  glanced  doubtfully  to  where  her  lady 
ship  stood. 


86  IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 

11  My  dear  fellow,"  Terry  cut  in  in  some  alarm,  "  don't  re 
fuse.  I  know  you  give  'em  all  the  cold  shoulder,  but  you 
will  really  be  conferring  a  favor  in  this  instance.  She — 
Lady  Dynely  I  mean  of  course — is  quite  wild  on  the  subject 
of  art  and  artists.  Never  heard  her  so  exercised  as  on  the 
subject  of  that  picture  of  yours." 

"  Lady  Dynely  does  me  too  much  honor,"  said  the  artist 
smiling  gravely,  and  Dennison  linked  his  arm  in  his  own, 
and  bore  him  off  in  triumph. 

"  Lady  Dynely,  permit  me— the  artist  whose  picture  you 
so  greatly  admire,  Mr.  Locksley.  Mr.  Locksley — Miss 
Forrester." 

Both  ladies  bowed  graciously.  Lady  Dynely  addressed 
him. 

"  It  is  the  gem  of  the  collection — but  Mr.  Locksley  must 
be  weary  of  hearing  that,"  she  said. 

"  An  artist  never  wearies  of  such  pleasant  flattery,"  Mr. 
Locksley  smilingly  answered  ;  "  and  whether  false  or  true, 
the  flattery  is  equally  sweet." 

'"  And  like  all  sweets  unwholesome,"  said  Miss  Forrester 
with  her  frank  laugh,  "  so  we  will  spare  you.  But  it  is  won 
derful — wonderful — that  woman's  face.  Where  did  you  find 
your  model,  Mr.  Locksley  ?  " 

"  The  face — the  whole  picture — is  painted  from  memory." 
was  his  answer,  very  gravely  made. 

The  moment  he  had  spoken  first,  Lady  Dynely  had 
turned,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  What  was  there  in 
his  voice  and  face  so  oddly  familiar  ?  That  face,  bronzed 
and  bearded,  was  not  like  any  face  she  knew,  yet  still — . 
He  stood  talking  to  France  Forrester,  while  she  thoughtfully 
gazed,  striving  in  vain  to  place  him. 

"How  goes  the  enemy?"  Terry  cried,  pulling  out  his 
watch  ;  "  ten  minutes  of  five.  Lady  Dynely,  there  was  talk 
of  a  Keswick  flower  show — " 

"  And  we  are  overdue — we  must  go  instantly,  France. 
Mr.  Locksley,  let  me  congratulate  you  once  more  on  your 
success — I  am  sure  it  is  but  the  forerunner  of  even  greater 
things.  I  have  some  examples  of  the  old  Italian  school, 
which  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  show  you,  if  you  care  to  see 


IN   THE  ROYAL   ACADEMY.  g/ 

them.  I  am  at  home  every  Thursday  evening  to  receive 
my  friends."  She  gave  him  her  card,  and  took  Mr.  Denni- 
son's  arm.  Miss  Forrester  murmured  some  last,  gracious 
words,  bowed  with  easy  grace,  and  moved  away  with  her 
friends. 

"  How  your  ladyship  stared,"  was  her  remark,  as  they 
entered  the  barouche  and  were  whirled  away  ;  "  have  you 
ever  met  this  Mr.  Locksley  before  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  met  Mr.  Locksley  before,  I  am  quite  sure," 
her  ladyship  answered ;  "  it  is  not  a  face  to  be  easily  for 
gotten.  It  is  a  striking  face." 

"A  very  striking  face,"  Miss  Forrester  agrees  decidedly. 
"  He  reminds  you  of  some  one,  possibly?" 

She  hesitates  a  moment — then  answers  : 

"  Of  one  who  must  have  died,  in  exile,  years  ago.  When 
he  spoke  first,  it  was  the  very  voice  of  Gordon  Caryll." 


CHAPTER    II. 


TERRY. 

the  window  of  one  of  her  private  rooms,  Lucia, 
Lady  Dynely,  sits  in  deep  and  painful  thought. 
The  fair,  smooth  brow  is  knit,  the  delicate  lips  are 
compressed,  an  anxious  worried  light  is  in  her  pale- 
blue  eyes.  It  is  Thursday  evening  ;  she  is  dressed  early 
for  her  reception,  and  in  her  flowing  silks  and  soft,  rich 
laces,  looks  a  very  fair  patrician  picture.  But  the  slender, 
ringed  hands  are  closely  locked,  as  in  physical  pain ; 
mentally  or  bodily,  you  can  see,  she  suffers  as  she  sits 
here. 

The  twilight  of  the  May  day  is  closing — a  soft  primrose 
light  fills  the  western  sky — a  faint  young  moon  lifts  its 
slender  sickle  and  pearly  light  over  the  Belgravian  chimney 
pots — a  few  stars  cluster  in  the  blue.  A  silvery  haze  hangs 
over  the  streets — the  "pea-soup"  atmosphere  of  dingy  Lon 
don  is  softly  clear  for  once,  and  the  gloomy  grandeur  of 
these  West  End  stuccoed  palaces  is  tenderly  toned  down. 
The  room  in  whicTi  Lady  Dynely  sits  is  her  sleeping  room, 
an  apartment  as  beautiful  and  elegant  as  wealth  and  taste 
can  make  a  room.  About  it,  however,  there  is  this  notice 
able — there  is  but  one  picture.  That  picture  is  a  portrait, 
painted  en  buste — it  is  as  though  that  portrait  were  held  so 
dear  no  other  picture  must  be  its  companion.  It  is  a  por 
trait  of  Eric  Alexis  Albert,  Lord  Viscount  Dynely,  and  twenty- 
first  Baron  Camperdown. 

You  pause  involuntarily  and  look  at  his  pictured  face ;  it 
is  one  that  at  any  time  or  in  any  place  must  strike  the 
most  casual  observer,  if  only  for  its  beauty.  Either  the 
artist  has  most  grossly  flattered  his  subject,  or  Eric,  Vis 
count  Dynely,  is  an  uncommonly  handsome  man.  The 


TERRY.  89 

face  is  beautiful — with  the  beauty  of  a  woman — its  great 
drawback  that  very  womanliness.  The  curling  hair  is 
golden,  the  eyes  sapphire  blue  to  their  deepest  depths,  the 
features  faultless,  the  smiling  mouth  sweet  and  weak  as  a 
girl's.  There  in  its  nook  of  honor  this  portrait  hangs  by 
night  and  day  in  Lady  Dynely' s  room,  the  last  object  her 
eyes  look  on  at  night,  the  first  that  greets  them  when  they 
open  to  the  new  day.  He  is  her  idol — it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that — her  hope — the  very  life  of  her  life.  At  present 
he  is  abroad,  has  been  for  over  a  year,  and  is  expected  home 
now  daily.  His  majority  comes  in  August,  and  it  is  to  be 
celebrated  down  at  Dynely  with  feasting  and  rejoicing,  with 
the  slaying  of  huge  bullocks,  and  the  broaching  of  mighty 
vats  of  ale. 

But  to-night  in  the  misty  May  gloaming  it  is  not  altogether 
of  her  darling  and  her  idol  my  lady  sits  thinking.  Surely 
all  thoughts  of  him  should  be  bright  and  pleasant — is  not  his 
majority  at  hand — is  he  not  to  marry  her  pet,  France  For 
rester,  and  live  happy  ever  after?  But  the  thoughts  she 
thinks  as  she  muses  here  are  neither  pleasant  nor  bright. 

All  her  life  long,  Lady  Dynely  has  been  a  weak  woman, 
timid  and  vacillating,  good,  gentle,  charitable,  but  wanting 
"  back  bone."  Her  son  inherits  that  want.  You  may  see 
it  in  his  smiling,  painted  face.  Her  mind  drifts  about  irres 
olutely  now.  She  thinks,  first  of  all,  of  the  grave,  bearded 
artist,  met  yesterday  in  the  Royal  Academy. 

How  like  these  deep  grave  eyes  to  other  eyes,  passed 
forever  out  of  her  world — how  like  and  yet  how  unlike. 
How  like  the  voice — deeper,  graver  in  its  timbre,  and  still 
the  same.  Even  a  slight  trick  of  manner,  characteristic  of 
Gordon  Caryll,  in  shaking  impatiently  back  his  fair  hair,  this 
artist  had.  It  was  odd,  it  was  almost  painful,  this  passing 
likeness,  and  yet  it  made  her  well  disposed  toward  this  Mr. 
Locksley,  made  her  absolutely  anxious  lest  he  should  fail  to 
put  in  an  appearance  at  her  reception  to-night. 

Gordon  Caryll !  all  at  once  as  she  sits  here,  that  long 
ago  moonlight  night  is  before  her  again.  She  sees  the  huge 
fish-pond,  a  sheet  of  silver  light  at  their  feet ;  she  sees  his  tall 
figure  cashing  its  long  shadow  on  the  velvet  sward,  sees  her- 


9O  TERRY. 

self,  pale  and  shivering,  clinging  to  his  arm,  as  she  listens  to 
that  sombre  story  of  man's  reckless  passion  and  woman's 
shameful  deceit.  Again  his  hands  clasp  her  own,  agaih  his 
farewell  sounds  in  her  ears. 

"I  will  take  nothing — not  even  my  name.  I  leave  it  be 
hind  with  all  the  rest  when  I  sail  for  India  next  week." 

He  had  gone ;  and  far  away  under  the  burning  Indian 
sky,  six  feet  of  ground  held  perhaps  what  had  once  been  the 
cousin  she  loved. 

"Ah,  poor  Gordon !"  she  sighs,  and  then  for  a  while  her 
train  of  thought  breaks,  and  there  is  a  blank. 

It  is  taken  up  again  ;  that  same  night  and  her  husband's 
death-bed  is  before  her.  The  dimly-lighted  chamber  of  the 
inn,  the  man  wounded  unto  death,  and  she  kneeling  beside 
him,  listening  to  his  dying  words.  Dying  words  so  dreadful 
to  hear,  that,  in  the  soft  warmth  of  her  room  now,  she  shivers 
from  head  to  foot  as  she  recalls  them.  That  terrible  night 
has  stamped  its  impress  upon  all  her  after  life. 

Slowly  and  wearily  her  mind  goes  over  all  that  came  after. 
The  solemn  and  stately  funeral,  the  sad  droning  service,  the 
bare  bowed  heads  of  the  mourners,  and  she  herself  in  her 
widow's  weeds,  white  and  shuddering,  but  weeping  not  at 
all,  her  little  azure-eyed  golden-haired  boy  by  her  side.  He 
is  dressed  in  black  velvet,  but  not  a  shred  of  crape,  and 
people  wonder  a  little  at  this  strange  neglect.  His  mother 
would  have  it  so — almost  passionately  she  had  torn  off  the 
band  and  shoulder-knot  of  crape  they  had  placed  upon  the 
baby  viscount,  and  had  caught  him  to  her  breast,  crying 
wildly  : 

"  Oh,  my  Eric  !  my  baby  !  my  baby  !  " 

They  buried  the  dead  lord  of  Dynely  Abbey — laid  him 
beneath  the  chancel  of  Roxhaven  Church,  where  scores  of 
dead-and-gone  Dynelys  lay.  There  was  a  tablet  of  wonder 
ful  beauty  and  cost  erected  above  him,  with  a  long  inscrip 
tion,  setting  forth  his  virtues  as  a  man,  a  magistrate,  a 
husband,  a  father.  "  And  his  works  do  follow  him,"  said 
the  glowing  record.  Was  it  in  bitter  satire  they  had  added 
t/iat,  she  wondered,  or  was  it  ominously  prophetic  ? 

All  was  over,  and  then  into  Lady  Dynely' s  life  came  2 


TERRY.  gi 

weary  gap — a  blank  of  months.  Months  when  she  sat 
alone  in  the  grand,  luxurious,  lonely  rooms,  white  and  still, 
never  crying,  never  complaining,  borne  down  by  the  weight 
of  some  great  and  hidden  trouble.  Her  health  failed  under 
it.  By  spring  she  was  the  veriest  shadow,  and  the  family 
physician  shook  his  professional  head,  and  ordered  imme 
diate  change  ;  Italy,  the  south  of  France,  a  milder  climate, 
cheerful  society,  change,  etc.,  etc.  She  refused  at  first 
peremptorily,  then  all  in  a  moment  changed  her  mind,  left 
little  Eric  in  charge  of  his  governess  and  the  housekeeper, 
and  started  upon  her  travels.  Not  to  Italy  or  France, 
though  ;  but,  to  the  intense  disgust  of  her  maid,  to  Ireland. 
Ireland,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  and  to  the  wildest  of  all 
wild  Ireland — Galway. 

She  had  some  object  in  view — Hortense,  the  maid,  could 
see  that ;  some  object  that  lent  a  glow  to  her  pallid  cheeks,  a 
light  to  her  dim  eyes,  an  energy  to  her  listless  movements, 
that  marvellously  astonished  that  handmaiden.  In  the  clad- 
dagh  on  the  Galway  coast  her  Irish  journey  came  to  an  end. 

She  left  her  maid  behind  her  the  day  of  her  arrival  in  the 
town,  and  went  on  alone  to  this  wild  village  of  Galway 
fishermen.  She  made  her  way  to  the  cabin  of  one  Mickey 
Gannon,  and  came  among  them,  in  their  squalor  and  their 
poverty,  almost  as  a  visitant  from  another  world.  Her  apol 
ogy  for  entering  came  to  hand  readily  enough. 

"  It  had  begun  to  rain  " — her  seal  jacket  was  drenched  ; 
"  might  she  seek  shelter  here  for  a  few  minutes,  until  the 
storm  abated  ?  She  was  a  tourist  exploring  the  west."  That 
was  her  faltered  excuse. 

They  gave  her  the  best  seat  and  the  cordial  welcome  for 
which  the  Irish  heart  is  famous,  and  which  bursts  out  even 
in  their  national  motto,  Cead  mille  failthe.  They  gave  her  the 
place  by  the  fire,  and  drew  back  in  respectful  silence  to 
gaze  at  the  pale,  fair  English  lady. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  dozen  children,  more  or  less, 
swarming  about  the  cabin.  With  keen  anxiety  in  her  eyes, 
Lady  Dynely  looked  from  face  to  face,  and  finally  her  gaze 
lighted  and  lingered  on  one.  It  was  a  little  lad  of  seven, 
rather  riore  of  a  tatterdemalion,  if  possible,  than  even  the 


92  TERRY. 

rest,  with  a  shaggy  crop  of  red,  unkempt  hair,  and  two  big 
blue  eyes,  round  with  wonder  as  midnight  moons. 

"Are  all  these  children  yours  ?"  she  asked  the  matron  of 
the  house ;  but  that  lady  shook  her  head ;  she  could  not 
speak  a  word  of  the  Sassanach  tongue. 

"  But,  sure  Biddy  can  spake  the  English  illegant,"  sug 
gested  the  father  of  the  family  ;  and  Biddy  was  summoned — 
a  strapping  lass  with  rose-red  cheeks,  gray  eyes,  jet-black 
hair,  and  a  musical  brogue — a  very  siren  of  western  Ireland. 
Biddy  came,  made  a  bashful  courtesy  to  the  quality,  and 
stood  waiting  to  be  questioned.  My  lady  repeated  her 
query. 

"Are  all  these  your  brothers  and  sisters,  my  good  girl?" 
with  a  stnile  ;  "  so  many  of  them  there  are." 

"  All  but  one,  yer  ladyship — the  red-headed  gossoon  be- 
yant  in  the  comer.  He's  me  sisther's  chile,"  responded 
bashful  Biddy. 

"  Oh — you  have  a  married  sister  then  ?  "  Lady  Dynely 
said. 

"  Not  now,  yer  ladyship — sure  she's  dead,  God  be 
good  to  her,  an'  it's  poor  Terry's  an  orphan  this  many 
a  day." 

"  An  orphan  ?  "  her  ladyship  repeated,  still  gazing  very 
earnestly  at  Terry,  who,  quite  overcome  with  bashfulness, 
put  one  grimy  finger  in  his  mouth  and  turned  a  very  dirty 
little  face  to  the  wall.  "  It  is  rather  hard  upon  your  father, 
having  to  provide  for  his  grandchildren,  isn't  it?  Is — " 
Lady  Dynely  paused,  and  over  her  pale  face  there  flushed 
a  crimson  light, — "is  the  lad's  father  dead?" 

Biddy  shook  her  head,  and  her  blue,  handsome  eyes 
flashed  angrily. 

"  I  don't  know,  yer  ladyship,  an',  savin'  yer  presence,  I 
don't  care.  Oh!  but  it  was  the  misfortinit  day  for  this  house 
whin  that  black-hearted  villain  iver  set  fut  in  it ! " 

"  Did  he — "  again  she  faltered — "  surely  he  did  not  de 
ceive  your  sister  ?  " 

Biddy  looked  at  her,  and  drew  her  fine  figure — a  figure 
that  had  been  left,  like  Nora  Crena's,  to  "  shrink  or  swell 
as  Heaven  pleases" — to  its  full  height. 


TERRY. 


93 


"  Desave  her,  is  it  ?  He  was  her  husband,  if  that's  what 
yer  ladyship  manes,  married  by  Father  O' Gorman,  himself, 
in  the  parish  chapel  beyant.  Oh,  faith  !  he  knew  betther 
than  to  come  palaverin'  here  widout  the  ring.  He  was  an 
Englishman — bad  cess  to  him  wheriver  he  is — kem  here  for 
the  fishin'  one  summer,  an'  met  Maureen  on  a  summer  even- 
in',  comin'  home  from  a  fair.  Oh,  wirra  !  that  he  iver  laid 
eyes  on  her  !  sure  from  that  day  he  was  at  her  heels  like 
her  very  shadda." 

"  Was  she  handsome,  this  sister  of  yours  ?"  Lady  Dynely 
asked,  with  curious  interest  in  this  lowly  romance. 

"  The  purtiest  girl  in  Gal  way,  an'  that's  a  big  word. 
Och !  but  wasn't  he  afther  her  hot  fut,  mornin's,  noon,  an' 
night,  an'  niver  a  day's  pace  wild  he  give  her,  till  she  said 
the  word,  an'  they  wint  up  to  Father  O' Gorman,  an'  were 
married." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  An1  thin  he  tuk  her  away  wid  him,  an'  for  a  year  or 
more  we  seen  nor  heerd  nothin'  av  aither  av  thim.  Sure 
poor  Maureen  cud  naither  read  nor  write.  An'  thin  all  at 
wance  she  kem  back  one  fine  inornin'  wid  Terry  there,  a 
weeny  baby  in  her  arrums,  an'  from  that  day  to  this  we  niver 
seen  hilt  nor  hair  av  her  fine  English  husband.  The  curse 
o'  the  crows  an  him  this  day  !  " 

"  He  deserted  her  ?  " 

"  Sure  he  did.  What  else  cud  ye  expect,  a  fine  illegant 
gentleman  like  that,  as  bould  as  brass  an'  as  rich  as  a  lord, 
an'  herself  wid  nothin'  at  all  but  two  blue  eyes  an'  a  purty 
face." 

"  A  lord,  did  you  say  ?  "  Lady  Dynely  repeated.  "  Surely 
he  was  not — " 

"I  don't  know  what  he  was,"  said  Biddy,  shortly;  "no 
more  did  Maureen.  He  called  himself  Dennison,  an'  was 
married  by  that  name.  But,  maybe  it  wasn't — sure  the 
divil  himself  cudn't  be  up  to  the  desate  av  him.  Och  ! 
Father  O' Gorman  warned  her,  but  she  wudn't  be  warned. 
An'  that  day  six  months,  afther  she  kem  back,  she  died  here 
wid  Terry  in  her  arrums,  an'  a  prayer  for  him,  the  villain  av 
the  world,  on  her  lips." 


94  TERRY. 

"  And  the  child  remains  here  since  ?  A  fine  boy,  too. 
Come  here,  Terry — here's  a  shilling  for  you." 

But  Terry,  altogether  aghast  at  such  a  proposal,  shrank 
away  into  his  corner  and  glued  his  grimy  countenance  to 
the  wall. 

"  Arrah  !  Come  here,. Terry,  come  here,  avic,  an'  spake 
to  the  lady,"  said  Biddy,  in  persuasive  accents.  Then,  as 
the  dulcet  tones  produced  no  effect,  she  whipped  him  up 
bodily  with  one  strong,  round  arm,  and  bore  him  over  to  be 
inspected. 

"Sure,  thin,  he's  dirtier  than  a  little  baste,"  said  Biddy, 
with  considerable  truth.  "  It's  himself  does  be  rowlin' 
undher  the  bed  wid  the  pig  from  mornin'  till  night." 

Lady  Dynley  smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  Terry's  face  was 
really  picturesque,  frescoed  so  to  speak,  with  dirt.  She 
held  out  a  handful  of  loose  silver,  which  Terry  grabbed  with 
ravenous  eagerness. 

"Would  you  part  with  the  child?"  she  asked,  after  a 
pause,  and  Biddy  regarded  her  with  silent  wonder.  "  I  may 
as  well  acknowledge  it,"  her  ladyship  went  on,  her  delicate 
face  crimsoning  painfully.  "  I  once  knew  this — this 
child's  father.  He  has  spoken  of  him  to  me,  recommended 
him  to  my  care.  Hush  !  "  she  said  authoritatively  as  she 
saw  Biddy  about  to  flame  forth ;  "  not  a  word.  He  is  dead. 
In  the  grave  let  his  sins  rest  with  him.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
I  will  take  this  boy  and  do  better  by  him  than  you  can  ever 
do.  In  fact — so  far  as  I  may," — she  paused,  and  grew 
very  white — "so  far  as  I  may,"  she  repeated,  steadfastly, 
"  I  will  atone  for  his  father's  wrong.  If  you  decline  to  let 
him  go — well  and  good — I  shall  trouble  you  no  more.  If 
you  consent,  you  shall  be  amply  repaid  for  all  the  trouble 
and  expense  of  the  past.  I  will  take  him,  educate  him,  and 
treat  him  in  all  respects  as  my  own — yes,  as  my  own  son. 
Now,  tell  your  parents,  and  bring  me  word  this  evening. 
Go  to  the  inn  in  the  village  and  ask  for  Lady  Dynely." 

She  arose  and  left  the  cabin.  The  rain  had  ceased,  ind 
with  the  look  of  one  who  had  done  a  hard  and  humiliating 
duty,  Lady  Dynely  went  back. 

That  evening  Biddy  came.     Pier  ladyship  was  very  good, 


TERRY. 


95 


and  they  would  humbly  accept  her  offer.  It  had  been  a 
hard  season  in  the  Claddagh — only  for  that  they  tvouid  never 
have  let  Terry  go.  There  was  but  one  stipulation — Terr_y 
must  be  brought  up  in  the  faith  of  his  mother. 

Next  day  Lady  Dynely  started  on  her  return  journey,  with 
Terry  washed  and  clothed,  and  looking  a  new  little  being, 
in  her  train.  She  went  to  Dublin,  and  there  for  good  and 
all  dismissed  the  maid  who  had  accompanied  her.  All  clew 
to  Terry's  antecedents  must  be  lost.  In  the  Irish  capital 
she  engaged  another  who  would  act  as  nurse  to  Master 
Terence,  and  maid  to  herself  for  the  present,  and  pursued  her 
journey  to  England. 

She  went  to  Lincolnshire,  and  there  left  her  charge.  It 
was  her  native  place,  and  the  Vicar  of  Starling  was  an  old 
friend.  With  the  vicar  and  his  family  the  lad  was  placed. 
The  vicarage  lay  down  in  the  dreary  fen  country,  with  ilat, 
dank  marshes  all  about  it — the  flat  sea,  lying  gray  and 
gloomy  beyond  the  sandy  coast.  He  was  a  poor  man,  rich 
only  in  many  daughters,  and  Lady  Dynely' s  proposal 
that  they  should  bring  up  Terry  was  gladly  accepted. 
Her  account  of  him  was  brief.  He  was  Terence  Dennison, 
the  orphan  son  of  a  distant  cousin  of  her  late  husband. 
An  Irish  cousin — a  very  distant  cousin — still  a  cousin,  and 
as  such,  with  a  claim  upon  Lord  Dynely' s  widow.  He 
was  poor  and  utterly  alone  in  the  world.  Would  Mr. 
Higgins  take  him  as  one  of  his  family,  let  him  grow  up 
among  them,  educate  him  and  accept  in  return — 

The  offer  was  munificent  in  Mr.  Higgins'  eyes — the 
bargain  was  closed  there  and  then,  and  little  Terry 
Dennison' s  life  began  anew. 

He  could  not  tell  these  good  people  much  about  his  early 
life — he  was  a  slow  child,  but  they  could  easily  sec  he  had 
been  brought  up  among  the  very  poor.  Until  he  was  fifteen 
he  remained  at  the  vicarage— then  he  went  to  Eton  with 
little  Eric,  Lord  Dynely,  and  the  two  lads  got  acquainted. 
That  Christmas  for  the  first  time  he  spent  the  vacation  at 
Dynely  Abbey,  and  thenceforth  alternately  passed  his 
holidays  at  the  vicarage  and  the  Abbey.  It  would  be  hard 
to  say  which  the  boy  liked  best.  At  the  vicarage,  Mr.  and 


96  TERRY. 

Mrs.  Higgins  had  been  as  father  and  mother  to  him,  and 
there  was  little  Crystal,  his  baby  sweetheart,  the  prettiest 
fairy  in  all  Lincolnshire.  But  at  the  old  ancestral  Abbey 
dwelt  the  angel  of  his  life,  Lady  Dynely.  It  was  wonder 
ful — it  was  pathetic,  the  admiring  love  and  veneration 
Terry  Dennison  had  for  this  lady.  Of  all  women  she  was 
the  most  beautiful,  of  all  women  the  best.  He  could  now- 
real  ize  all  she  had  done  for  him,  and  it  filled  his  slow  soul 
with  wonder,  the  greatness  of  her  goodness.  From  the 
depths  of  poverty  and  misery  she  had  descended  like  an  angel 
of  light  to  rescue  him. 

All  that  she  did  for  her  own  son  she  did  for  him  ;  he  had 
even  more  pocket  money  than  Eric.  This  Christmas 
she  gave  him  a  gold  watch,  the  next  a  pony — she  loaded 
him  with  costly  presents  and  kindly  words  always. 
Costly  presents  and  kindly  words,  but  never  once — no,  not 
once,  one  caress.  Instinctively  she  shrank  from  this  boy  she 
had  adopted  with  a  look  absolutely  of  repulsion — absolutely 
of  terror  at  times.  This  Terry  did  not  notice.  I  have  said  he 
was  slow,  but  his  heart  yearned  vaguely  sometimes  for  just  one 
touch  of  her  white,  slirn  hand  on  his  shaggy,  tawny  head — for 
just  one  of  the  kisses  she  lavished  on  her  son.  He  envied 
Eric — thrice  happy  Eric — not  his  beauty,  not  his  title,  not 
his  wealth ;  ah,  no  !  but  one  of  these  motherly  embraces 
showered  on  him  like  rain.  Eric  shook  her  off,  impatient, 
boy-like,  of  kisses  and  fondling,  and  then  Lady  Dynely  would 
see  Terry's  round,  Celtic  eyes  lifted  wistfully  to  her  face  with 
the  longing,  pathetic  patience  you  see  in  the  eyes  of  a  dog. 
This  love,  little  short  of  worship,  grew  with  his  growth — to 
him  she  was  the  perfection  of  all  that  was  purest,  fairest, 
sweetest,  noblest,  among  women.  He  never  put  in  words — 
most  likely  he  could  not — one  half  the  veneration  with  which 
she  inspired  him.  And  partly  for  her  sake  and  partly  for  his 
own,  for  the  gallant  and  golden  beauty  that  charmed  all  hearts, 
he  loved  Eric,  as  once  upon  a  time  Jonathan  loved  splendid 
young  David — "  With  a  love  surpassing  that  of  women." 

Terry  grew  to  manhood,  went  up  to  Oxford,  reached  his 
majority,  and  then  his  benefactress  bestowed  upon  him  the 
crown  of  h's  life,  the  desire  of  his  heart,  a  commission  in  a 


TERRY.  gj 

crack  regiment.  He  could  have  cast  himself  at  her  feet  and 
kissed  the  hem  of  her  garment,  so  grateful  was  he,  but  he 
only  turned  very  red  indeed,  and  looked  foolish  and  awk 
ward,  after  the  fashion  of  your  big-hearted  men  when  they 
feel  most,  and  stammered  incoherently  two  or  three  stupid 
phrases  of  thanks. 

"  No,  don't  thank  me,  please,"  Lady  Dynely  said  hur 
riedly.  "  I  can't  do  too  much  for  you,  Terry.  You — you 
are  a  relative  of  my  late  husband's,  you  know.  In  doing 
this  I  am  only  doing  my  duty." 

"  Only  her  duty."  Ah,  she  made  him  feel  that,  feel  it 
ever.  Always  duty,  never  love. 

"  Five  hundred  a  year  has  been  settled  upon  you,  also," 
her  ladyship  went  on  ;  "  this,  in  addition  to  your  pay,  will 
probably  suffice  for  you.  Your  habits  are  not  expensive, 
Terry,"  with  a  smile;  "not  like  Eric's  for  instance,  who 
spends  more  in  a  month  for  bouquets  and  kid  gloves  than 
you  do  in  a  year.  But  if  it  should  not  suffice,  never  hesitate 
to  draw  upon  me  freely,  and  at  all  times.  My  purse  is  open 
to  you  as  to  my  own  son." 

"Madame,  your  goodness  overpowers  me,"  is  all  poor 
Terry  can  answer,  and  there  is  a  choking  sensation  in  his 
throat,  and  tears,  actual  tears,  in  the  boy's  foolish  blue  eyes. 

She  sits  and  looks  at  him  as  he  stands  before  her,  big, 
broad-shoulders,  sunburned,  healthy,  not  in  the  least  hand 
some,  not  in  the  least  graceful  or  refined,  with  the  grace  and 
refinement  that  is  her  darling  Eric's  birthright,  but  a  gentle 
man  from  head  to  foot.  She  takes  his  hand  and  looks  at 
Aim  with  wistful  eyes. 

"  Terry,"  she  says,  "  I  have  done  my  best  for  you,  have  I 
tot  ?  I  have  tried — yes,  Heaven  knows  I  have — to 
nake  you  happy  !  And  you  are  happy,  are  you  not  ?  " 

Happy  !  he — Terry  !  A  curiously  sentimental  question, 
<urely,  to  ask  this  big  dragoon,  with  his  hearty  face  and 
muscular  six  feet  of  manhood.  It  strikes  Terry  in  that  light, 
and  he  laughs. 

"  Happy  !  "  he  repeats.  "  The  happiest  and  luckiest  fellow 
in  England.  Haven't  a  wish  unsatisfied — give  you  my 
honor,  wouldn't  change  places  with  a  duke.  Happy  !  by 
5 


98  TERRY. 

Jove,  you  know  I  should  think  so,  with  a  commission  and 
five  hundred  a  year,  and  the  pot  I  made  on  Derby,  and — • 
er — your  regard,  you  know,  my  lady.  Because,"  says  honest 
Terry,  turning  very  red  again  and  floundering  after  the  fash 
ion  of  his  kind  in  the  quagmire  of  his  feelings,  "  your  regard 
is  jgprth  more  to  me  than  the  whole  world  beside.  I  ain't 
the  sort  of  a  fellow  to  speak  out — er — urn — what  I  feel,  but 
by  Jove  !  I  do  feel  you  know,  and  I'm  awfully  grateful  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  And,"  says  Terry,  with  a 
great  burst,  "  I'd  lay  down  my  life  for  you  willingly  any 
day ! " 

And  then  he  pulls  himself  up,  and  shifts  uneasily  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  and  looks  and  feels  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  himself  for  what  he  has  said. 

"  I  know  that,  Terry,"  her  ladyship  answers,  more  touched 
than  she  cares  to  show.  "  I  believe  it,  indeed.  You  are  of 
the  sort  who  will  go  to  death  itself  for  their  friends.  The 
rnotto  of  our  house  suits  you — *  Loyal  au  mori.'  One  day 
I  may  call  upon  that  loyalty,  not  for  myself  but  for  Eric. 
One  day,  Terry,  I  may  remind  you  of  your  own  words,  and 
call  upon  you  to  redeem  them." 

"  When  that  day  comes,  my  lady,"  he  answers,  quietly, 
"  you  will  find  me  ready." 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  not  heeding  him,  "  one  day  I  may 
call  upon  you  to  make  a  sacrifice,  a  great  sacrifice,  for  Eric 
and  for  me.  One  day  I  shall  tell  you — "  She' paused 
abruptly,  and  looked  at  him,  and  clasped  her  hands.  "  Oh, 
Terry  !  be  a  friend,  a  brother  to  my  boy  !  He  is  not  like 
/ou — he  is  reckless,  extravagant,  easily  led,  self-willed,  wild. 
He  will  go  wrong — I  fear  it — I  fear  it — and  you  must  be 
his  protector  whenever  you  can.  Let  nothing  he  ever  does, 
nothing  he  ever  says  to  you,  tempt  you  to  anger  against  him 
— tempt  you  to  desert  him.  Promise  me  that ! " 

He  knelt  down  before  her,  and  with  the  grace  a  Chevalier 
Bayard  might  have  envied,  the  grace  that  comes  from  a  true 
heart,  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Nothing  that  Eric  can  ever  do,  can  ever  say,  will  tempt 
me  to  anger — that  I  swear.  For  his  sake,  and  for  yours,  I 
will  do  all  man  can  do.  You  have  been  the  good  angel  of 


TERRY.  99 

my  life.  I  would  be  less  than  man  if  I  ever  forgot  your 
goodness." 

She  drew  her  hands  suddenly  from  his  clasp,  and  bowed 
her  face  upon  them. 

"  The  good  angel  of  your  life ! "  she  repeated,  brokenly. 
"  Oh  !  you  don't  know — you  don't  know  !  "  Then  as 
suddenly,  she  lifted  her  face,  took  Terry's  between  her  two 
hands,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  kissed  him. 

He  bowed  his  head  as  to  a  benediction  ;  and  a  compact 

was  sealed  that  not  death  itself  could  break. 

********* 

With  a  start  Lady  Dynely  awakes  from  her  dream.  The 
soft  darkness  of  the  spring  night  has  fallen  over  the  great 
city  ;  its  million  gas-lights  gleam  through  the  gray  gloom  ; 
carriages  are  rolling  up  to  the  door,  and  Terry  Dennison 
goes  down  the  passage  outside,  whistling  an  Irish  jig.  She 
rises.  As  she  does  so,  her  eyes  fall  upon  her  son's  picture. 
The  light  of  a  street  lamp  falls  full  upon  it,  and  lights  it  up  in 
its  smiling  beauty. 

"  My  darling  !  "  she  whispers,  passionately,  "  my  treasure  ! 
what  will  you  say  to  your  mother  on  the  day  when  you  learn 
the  truth  ?  It  is  due  to  you,  and  ah  !  dear  Heaven  !  it  is  due 
to  him.  Poor  Terry  !  poor,  foolish,  generous  Terry  ! — who 
holds  me  little  lower  than  the  angels — who  loves  me  as  you, 
my  heart's  dearest,  never  will — what  will  he  think  of  me  when 
he  learns  the  truth  ?  " 


CHAPTER   III. 

MADAME    FELICIA. 

[WAY  beyond  the  stately  and  stuccoed  palaces  of 
Belgravia,  beyond  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  city, 
the  fashion  and  gayety  of  the  West  End,  Mr.  Locks- 
ley,  the  artist,  stands  watching  the  afternoon  sun 
drop  out  of  sight  beyond  the  green  lanes,  and  quaint,  pretty 
gardens  of  old  Brompton.  His  lodgings  are  here  in  a  quiet, 
gray  cottage,  all  overgrown  with  sweetbrier,  climbing  roses, 
and  honeysuckle.  It  is  here  he  has  painted  the  picture  that 
is  to  be  his  stepping-stone  to  fame  and  fortune,  "  How  the 
Night  Fell." 

He  stands  leaning  with  folded  arms  upon  the  low  wicket- 
gate,  among  the  lilac  trees  and  rose-bushes  in  the  old-fashion 
ed,  sweet-smelling,  neglected  garden,  smoking  a  little  black 
meerschaum,  his  friend  and  solace  for  the  past  sixteen  years. 
Profound  stillness  reigns.  In  the  west  the  sunset  sky  is  all 
rose  and  gold  light ;  above  him,  pale  primrose,  eastward,  opal 
gray.  A  thrush  sings,  its  sweet  pathetic  song  in  an  elm-tree 
near,  and  artist  eye  and  ear  and  soul  drink  in  all  the  tender 
hush  and  loveliness  of  the  May  eventide — unconsciously, 
though,  for  his  thoughts  are  far  afield. 

Two  years  have  passed  since  this  man's  return  to  England 
from  foreign  lands,  and  during  these  two  years  he  has  looked 
forward  to  one  thing,  half  in  hope,  half  in  dread,  half  in  long 
ing.  That  thing  has  come  to  pass.  It  is  yesterday's  ren 
counter  with  Lucia,  Lady  Dynely.  She  is  of  his  kin,  and  he 
has  yearned  to  look  once  more  upon  a  kindred  face,  to  hear 
once  more  a  familiar  voice — yearned  yet  dreaded  it  too ;  for 
recognition  is  the  one  thing  he  most  wishes  to  avoid.  The 
past  is  dead  and  buried,  and  he  with  it.  The  world  that 
knew  him  once,  knows  him  no  more.  It  is  a  past  of  shame 


MADAME  F'EUCIA.  IOI 

and  pain,  of  sorrow  and  disgrace.  It  is  all  over  and  done 
with — buried  in  oblivion  with  the  name  he  then  bore.  1  n 
that  world  few  things  are  remembered  long  ;  a  nine  days' 
wonder ;  then  the  waters  close  over  the  drowning  wretch's 
head,  and  all  is  at  an  end. 

In  the  park,  lying  back  listless  and  elegant  in  her  silks 
and  laces,  he  has  seen  Lady  Dynely  often  daring  the  past 
season  ;  face  to  face  never  before.  He  stands  thinking 
dreamily  of  yesterday's  meeting,  as  he  leans  across  the 
gate  and  smokes,  and  of  his  invitation  of  to-night. 

"  She  did  not  know  me,"  he  thinks  ;  "  and  yet  I  could  see 
it,  something  familiar  struck  her,  too.  Sixteen  years  of 
exile — twelve  of  hard  campaigning  in  India  and  America — 
would  change  most  men  out  of  all  knowledge.  They  think 
me  dead  beside — so  I  have  been  told.  Well,  better  so  ;  and 
yet,  dead  in  life — it  is  not  a  pleasant  thought." 

The  blue,  perfumy  smoke  curls  up  in  the  evening  air ;  the 
thrush  pipes  its  pensive  lay.  He  pauses  in  his  train  of 
thought  to  listen  and  watch,  with  artist  eye  for  coloring,  the 
gorgeous  masses  of  painted  cloud  in  the  western  sky. 

"This  Terry  Dennison,"  he  muses  again,  "who  can  he  be, 
and  how  came  Lucia  to  adopt  him  ?  It  was  not  her  way  to 
take  odd  philanthropic  whims.  A  distant  connection  of  the 
late  viscount's — humph !  That  is  easily  enough  believed, 
since  he  resembles  sufficiently  the  late  viscount,  red  hair  and 
all,  to  be  his  own  son.  His  own  son  ! "  Mr.  Locksley  pauses 
suddenly  ;  "  his  own  son  !  Well,  why  not  ?  " 

There  is  no  answer  to  this.  The  serenade  of  the  thrush 
grows  fainter,  the  rosy  after-glow  is  fading  out  in  pale  blue 
gray,  the  moon  shows  its  crystal  crescent  over  the  elm-tree. 
His  pipe  goes  out,  and  he  puts  it  in  his  pocket. 

"France  Forrester,  too,"  he  says  to  himself;  "the  baby 
daughter  of  my  old  Canadian  friend,  the  general,  grown  to 
womanhood — Mrs.  Caryll's  adopted  daughter  and  heiress, 
vice  Gordon  Caryll,  cashiered.  They  will  marry  her  to  Eric 
Dynely,  I  suppose,  and  unite  Caryllynne  and  the  Abbey. 
A  handsome  girl  and  a  spirited — too  good,  by  all  odds,  for  that 
dandified  young  Apollo,  as  I  saw  him  last  at  Naples.  A  girl 
with  brains  in  that  handsome,  uplifted  head,  and  a  will  of  her 


IO2  $fi    FELICIA. 

own,  or  that  square-cut  mouth  and  resolute  little  chin  belie 
her  character.  Still,  I  suppose,  a  young  fellow  as  faultlessly 
good-looking  as  Lord  Eric  needs  no  additional  virtues,  and 
your  women  with  brains  are  mostly  the  greatest  fools  in  mat 
ters  matrimonial." 

With  which  cynical  wind-up  Mr.  Locksley  pulls  out  his 
watch  and  glances  at  the  hour.  Eight.  If  he  means  to 
attend  my  lady's  "  At  Home"  it  is  time  to  get  into  regulatior 
costume  and  start. 

"  I  shall  be  an  idiot  for  my  pains,"  he  growls,  "  running 
the  chance  of  recognition,  and  only  invited  as  the  newest 
lion  in  the  Bohemian  menagerie.  And  yet  it  is  pleasant  to 
look  in  Lucia's  familiar  face  once  more — to  make  one  again 
in  that  half-forgotten  world.  Besides" — he  adds  this  rather 
irrelevantly  as  he  starts  up — "  Miss  Forrester  interests  me. 
What  a  face  that  would  be  to  paint !  " 

He  turns  to  enter  the  house — then  stops.  A  phaeton  with 
two  black,  fiery-eyed  steeds,  whirls  up  to  where  he  stands,  the 
reins  are  flung  to  the  groom,  and  a  gentleman  springs  down, 
lifts  his  hat  and  accosts  him. 

"  Mr.  Locksley  ! " 

He  is  a  small,  elderly,  yellow  man,  shrivelled  and  foreign- 
looking,  with  glittering,  beady-black  eyes.  Beneath  the 
light  summer  overcoat  he  wears  the  artist  catches  sight  of  a 
foreign  order  on  th^  breast.  He  speaks  the  name,  too, 
with  a  marked  accent,  as  he  stands,  and  bows  and  smiles. 

"  My  name  is  Locksley,"  the  artist  replies. 

The  small,  yellow  man  hands  him  his  card.  "  Prince 
Cassare  Di  Venturing"  Mr.  Locksley  reads,  and  recognizes 
his  interlocutor  immediately.  The  prince  is  perfectly  fami 
liar  to  him  by  sight,  though  for  the  moment  he  had  been 
unable  to  place  him.  He  is  a  Neapolitan,  the  scion  of  an 
impoverished  princely  house,  and  a  political  exile. 

"  At  your  excellency's  service,"  Mr.  Locksley  says,  look 
ing  up  inquiringly;  "in  what  way  can  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
serving  you  ?  " 

"  That  picture,  *  How  the  Night  Fell,'  is  yours,  mon 
sieur  ?  " 

Mr.  Locksley  bows. 


MADAME  FELICIA. 


103 


"  It  is  not  sold  ?  " 

"It  is  not." 

"  It  is  for  sale  ?  " 

Mr.  Locksley  bows  again. 

"  It  is  not  yet  disposed  of.  Good  !  Then,  monsieur, 
a  lady  friend  of  mine  desires  to  do  herself  the  pleasure  of 
becoming  its  purchaser,  and  I  am  commissioned  as  her 
agent  to  treat  with  the  artist.  Its  price  ?  " 

Mr.  Locksley  names  the  price,  and  inquires,  rather  sur 
prised  at  the  suddenness  and  rapidity  of  this  business  transac 
tion,  if  the  Prince  Di  Venturini  will  not  come  in. 

"  No,  no — it  is  but  the  matter  of  a  moment — he  will  not 
detain  Mr.  Locksley."  He  produces  a  blank  check  and 
pen  there  and  then,  scrawls  for  a  second  upon  it,  then  with 
a  low  bow,  a  smile  that  shows  a  row  of  glittering  teeth, 
passes  it  across  the  little  gate.  The  next  instant  he  has 
leaped  lightly  into  the  phaeton,  and  the  fiery-eyed,  coal- 
black  horses,  that  look  as  though  they  had  but  lately  left  the 
Plutonian  stables,  dash  away  through  the  dewy  darkness. 
Mr.  Locksley  stands  with  his  breath  nearly  taken  from 
him  by  the  bewildering  swiftness  of  this  unexpected  barter, 
and  looks  at  the  check  in  his  hand.  It  is  for  the  amount 
named — the  signature  is  his  excellency's  own,  but  he  had 
said  the  picture  was  for  a  lady. 

"  Who  can  she  be,  I  wonder  ?  "  thinks  the  artist,  pocket 
ing  the  check  and  going  into  the  house  ;  "  a  personage  of 
rank,  or — stay  !  this  popular  danseuse  from  over  the  water, 
whose  name  rings  the  changes  through  London,  and  whose 
beauty  and  whose  dancing  are  the  talk  of  the  town.  The 
Prince  is  known  to  be  the  most  devoted  of  her  devotees — 
some  men  lay  heavy  odds  he'll  marry  her.  I  must  drop 
in,  by  the  by,  soYne  night  at  the  Bijou,  and  look  at  her. 
So,  my  picture  is  sold  at  my  own  price.  Lady  Dynel/s 

fashionable  doors  are  thrown  open  to  me surely  a  turn  in 

fortune's  wheel,  this." 

He  laughs  slightly.  He  is  the  possessor  of  more  money 
this  evening  than  he  has  owned  any  time  the  past  sixteen 
years.  In  the  days  that  are  gone  he  has  known  poverty  in 


MADAME  FELICIA. 

its  bitterest  shape,  the  bitter  poverty  of  a  man  born  to 
the  purple  and  fallen  from  his  high  estate. 

He  divested  himself  of  his  picturesque,  paint-stained, 
velvet  blouse,  and  got  himself  into  a  dress-coat  and  tie.  All 
the  while  he  kept  wondering  vaguely  who  had  purchased  his 
picture.  "  If  by  any  chance  the  Prince  is  present  at  Lady 
Dynely's,  I  will  inquire,"  he  thought,  as  he  pocketed  his 
latch-key  and  left  the  house ;  "  I  really  should  like  to 
know." 

He  really  would,  no  doubt.  Interested  as  he  was  in  this 
unknown  lady,  he  would  have  been  more  interested  prob 
ably  had  he  been  present  in  the  academy  that  afternoon. 

The  rooms,  as  usual,  were  filled ;  as  usual,  too,  the 
centre  of  attraction  was  "How  the  Night  Fell."  Very 
shortly  after  the  doors  were  thrown  open  there  had  entered 
a  lady  and  gentleman — whose  entrance  created  a  sensation, 
and  who  divided  the  interest  with  the  pet  picture  of  the  year. 
The  gentleman  was  the  Neapolitan  Prince,  the  lady  the 
most  popular  dan  sense  in  London,  Madame  Felicia. 

She  came  moving  slowly  through  the  throng,  seeing  and 
enjoying  the  sensation  she  created,  a  plump,  rather  petite 
beauty,  her  dark  face  lit  by  two  wonderful  eyes,  long,  sleepy, 
yellow-black.  She  was  of  a  beauty,  in  a  dark  way,  simply 
perfect,  and  she  was  dressed  in  the  perfection  of  taste.  A 
silver-gray  silk,  with  here  and  there  vivid  dashes  of  scarlet 
and  touches  of  rare  old  lace,  the  masterpiece  of  a  masculine 
niantua  maker  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Every  eye  turned  to 
gaze  after  this  lionne  of  Coulisses,  the  most  perfect  dancer 
they  said  that  ever  bounded  before  the  footlights  since  the 
days  of  Taglioni.  The  Prince  hung  devotedly  upon  her 
lightest  word,  but  she  turned  impatiently  away  from  him, 
glancing  with  a  scornful  little  air  of  disdain  along  the 
walls. 

"Always  the  same."  she  said,  pettishly ;  "  simpering  women, 
glowering  women,  wax-doll  misses  with  yellow  hair  and  china- 
blue  eyes,  insipid  as  their  own  nursery  bread  and  butter. 
Bah  !  why  does  one  take  the  trouble  to  come  at  all?" 

"Will  madame  condescend  to  look  at  that  ?" 

He  led  her  before  the  picture — the  group  surrounding  it 


MADAME  FELICIA. 

fell  back  a  little.  She  lifted  her  eyes,  bored,  disdainful, 
then — a  sudden  stillness  came  over  her  from  head  to  foot. 
All  languor,  all  ennui,  fled  from  her  face,  its  rich  coloring 
faded — she  grew  ashen  gray  to  the  very  lips.  So  for  the 
space  of  fully  five  minutes  she  stood. 

"  How  does  madame  find  it  ? "  the  suave  voice  of  the 
Italian  asked. 

She  neither  moved  nor  answered.  She  never  took  her 
eyes  from  the  picture.  Slowly  life  and  color  returned  to 
her  face,  slowly  into  the  great  topaz  eyes,  sleepy  and  half- 
closed  like  a  panther's,  there  came  a  vivid  light.  One  small 
gloved  hand  crushed  her  catalogue  unconsciously — as  if 
fascinated  she  stood  there  and  gazed. 

"  Thou  art  pleased  with  the  picture  then,  madame  ? " 
Di  Venturini  said,  softly,  in  French. 

"Pleased  with  it?"  she  repeated,  a  slow,  curious  smile 
dawning  on  her  lips.  "  Prince,  I  must  have  that  picture  !  " 

"  But,  if  it  is  already  sold  ?  True,  the  star  is  not  affixed, 
but " 

"  I  must  have  that  picture  ! "  madame  repeated,  with  a 
flash  of  the  black  eyes ;  "  sold  or  not,  I  still  must  have 
it.  How  do  they  call  the  artist  ?  "  She  looked  at  the  cata 
logue.  "  *  G.  Locksley.'  The  name  is  new — is  it  not, 
Prince  ?  " 

"Altogether  new,  madame.  If  you  really  wish  it, 
I  will  discover  this  M.  Locksley  and  purchase  the  picture  if 
still  in  the  market." 

"  I  do  wish  it,  Monsieur  Prince.  That  picture  I  must 
have  though  it  cost  half  a  fortune.  '  How  the  Night  Fell  ! '  " 

She  turned  back  to  it,  and  looked  and  looked  as  though 
she  could  never  look  enough. 

"  It  is  an  odd  fancy,"  said  Prince  Di  Venturini,  after  a 
pause  ;  "  an  absurd  one,  you  may  think,  madame,  but  the 
face  of  that  woman  in  the  picture  is  very  like  yours.  Not 
one  half  so  lovely,  but  very  like,  nevertheless.  Does  ma 
dame  perceive  it  ?  " 

"  Does  madame  not  ? "  madame  responded,  that  slow, 
sleepy  smile  still  on  her  lips.  "  Who  could  fail  ?  And  yet, 
mon  Prince,  you  cannot  fancy  me  with  that  expression,  can 
5* 


106  MADAME  FELICIA. 

you  ?  He  is  leaving  her — is  it  not  ?  and  her  heart  is  b;  eak- 
ing.  Bah  !  it  is  like  the  egotism  of  men,  they  desert  us  and 
we  die — or  so  they  think !  Prince,  that  picture  must  be 
mine  before  I  sleep.  You  hear  ?  " 

"  And  live  but  to  obey ! "  with  a  most  profound  bow ; 
"  the  picture  shall  be  yours  !  " 

He  escorted  her  to  her  carriage. 

At  sunset  across  the  gate  of  the  Brompton  cottage  the 
bargain  was  struck,  and  "How  the  Night  Fell"  became  the 
property  of  Madame  Felicia,  the  actress. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
LADY  DYNELY'S  THURSDAY. 

|RILLIANTLY  lit,  brilliantly  filled,  Lady  Dynel/s 
elegant  rooms  were  a  study  of  color  in  themselves 
for  a  painter  when  Mr.  Locksley  arrived.     He  was 
rather  late — dancing  was  going  on,  as  he  made  his 
way  to  his  hostess'  side  to  pay  his  respects. 

In  his  ceremonial  costume,  the  artist  looked  something 
more  than  well,  and  that  military  air  of  his  was  more  con 
spicuous  than  ever. 

"  You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still," 

quotes  Miss  France  Forrester  to  Mr.  Terence  Dennison. 
"  I  would  know  the  stalk  of  a  trooper  (and  have  seen  it 
more  than  once)  under  the  cowl  of  a  monk.  Your  Mr. 
Locksley,  Terry,  is  the  most  distinguished-looking  man  in 
the  rooms." 

"  I  never  said  he  was  my  Mr.  Locksley.  So  you  find  the 
painter  as  attractive  as  the  painting,  France,  and  you  will  be 
good  to  him,  and  smile  upon  him,  and  turn  his  head,  for  the 
space  of  a  week.  The  last  victim  was  the  popular  new 
poet,  the  Cheapside  tailor's  son.  Ah  !  poor  Locksley  !  " 

"  Terry,"  Miss  Forrester  says  severely,  "  small  boys  should 
never  attempt  the  sarcastic — you  least  of  all — for  some 
years  to  come.  I  am  interested  in  aspiring  geniuses — as  a 
soldier's  daughter,  in  all  soldiers.  Where  did  you  say  Mr. 
Locksley  had  served  ?  " 

"  India  and  America.  Indian  mutiny,  and  American 
civil  war,  with  great  distinction  in  both.  A  professional 
free-lance,  and,  I  have  heard,  brave  as  a  lion." 

"  He  looks  it,"  France  said,  dreamily.  "  He  has  the 
true  air  noble.  Surely  that  man  is  well  born,  or  else  the 


I08  LADY  DYN ELY'S    THURSDAY. 

old  adage,  that  blood  tells,  is  false.  And  Lady  Dynely  says 
he  resembles  Gordon  Caryll." 

"  Never  saw  Gordon  Caryll,"  Terry  sleepily  responds, 
"  Heard  of  him  though.  Went  to  perdition  for  a  woman, 
didn't  he?  A  common  case  enough.  And  you  take  him 
to  your  heart  of  hearts  for  that  resemblance,  don't  you,  Miss 
Forrester  ?  I  know  you  have  set  up  this  Gordon  Caryll  as 
a  sort  of  demi-god,  my  hero-worshipping  young  lady." 

She  smiled,  then  sighed.  She  was  looking  brilliantly 
handsome  to-night  in  pink  silk,  pink  roses  in  her  brown 
hair,  caught  back  by  gleaming  diamonds.  She  had  a  love 
for  bright  colors  and  rich  gems,  and  looked  with  contempt 
on  the  white  tulle  and  pale  pearls  of  her  young  lady  friends. 

"  What  clergyman  was  it  said  once  when  he  introduced 
operatic  airs  into  his  choir,  that  it  was  a  pity  the  devil 
should  have  all  the  good  tunes.  On  the  same  principle,  I 
say  it  is  a  pity  your  married  women  should  monopolize  the 
brightest  colors  and  richest  jewels.  The  English  Miss  has 
been  trampled  upon  long  enough — let  me  be  the  heroine  to 
inaugurate  a  new  era." 

This  is  what  Miss  Forrester  had  said  to  Lady  Dynely, 
this  very  evening,  when  slightly  remonstrated  with  on  the 
subject  of  her  magnificence.  The  vivid  colors,  the  vivid 
gems,  the  roses  and  laces,  suited  her  dusk,  warm  loveliness, 
and  she  knew  it. 

Terry  had  been  her  companion  for  the  past  hour.  The 
Canadian  heiress  had  a  very  drfectionate  regard  for  Mr. 
Dennison,  and  made  no  secret  of  it. 

"  I  am  awfully  fond  of  Terry,"  she  was  wont  to  say ; 
"  the  best  fellow  alive  and  the  greatest  simpleton  ever  cre 
ated." 

"  She  treats  me  like  a  small  boy  of  ten,  at  home  for  the 
holidays,"  Mr.  Dennison  would  supplement  with  a  groan. 

They  both  pause  for  a  moment  while  they  discuss  Mr. 
Locksley,  and  look  at  him.  Many  others  look,  too.  "How 
the  Night  Fell  "  has  made  a  sensation  ;  they  feel  a  languid 
interest  in  the  painter. 

"  France,"  Mr.  Dennison  says,  after  that  pause,  "  I  have 
an  idea." 


LADY  DYNELY*S   THURSDAY. 


109 


"  Have  you,  Terry  ?  Cherish  it  then,  my  dear  boy,  foi 
you  are  never  likely  to  have  another." 

"  Madame,"  Terry  responds,  "  your  sex  protects  you  ! 
Here  is  my  idea.  What  if  that  fellow  should  be  the  long- 
lost  heir  of  Caryllynne,  returned  to  the  halls  of  his  fathers. 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  once  more,  to  cut  you  out  of  a 
fortune.  It  would  be  uncommonly  like  a  thing  on  the 
stage,  now  wouldn't  it?" 

"  Certainly  like  a  thing  on  the  stage,"  Miss  Forrester  dis 
dainfully  replies;  "therefore  very  unlike  anything  in  real 
life.  Ah,  no  !  that  would  be  too  good  to  be  true.  Gordon 
Caryll,  poor  fellow,  is  dead.  The  likeness  Lady  Dynely 
sees,  if  indeed  she  sees  any,  is  but  a  coincidence.  See,  she 
is  beckoning — let  us  go  over." 

They  cross  the  room.  Miss  Forrester,  with  a  frank  smile 
of  welcome,  and  looking  very  bright  and  lovely,  gives  the 
artist  a  most  gracious  greeting. 

"  I  saw  you  were  not  dancing,  France,  and  want  you  to 
do  the  honors  of  my  picture  gallery.  You  could  not  have  a 
better  cicerone,  Mr.  Locksley.  France  has  lived  as  she 
says  in  an  atmosphere  of  paintings  all  her  life." 

"And  familiarity  breeds  contempt,"  murmurs  Mr.  Den- 
nison. 

"  Only  in  the  case  of  stupid  dragoons,"  retorts  Miss 
Forrester.  "How  often  have  I  tried  to  impress  upon 
you,  Terry,  that  sarcasm  isn't  your  forte.  I  shall  have 
much  pleasure  in  displaying  our  art  treasures  to  your  critical 
eyes,  Mr.  Locksley.  I  always  feel  en  rapport  immediately 
with  artists — they  were  the  staple  of  my  acquaintance  in 
Rome.  It  is  the  hot-bed  of  genius.  You  have  studied 
there,  I  can  see." 

"  For  three  years,  Miss  Forrester.  And,"  he  smiles  as  he 
says  it,  and  Miss  Forrester  marvels  to  see  how  that  smile 
lights  up  his  dark,  grave  face — "  I  have  seen  you  there 
many  times." 

"  Indeed  !  But  you  must,  of  course  ;  I  spent  half  my 
life  sketching  in  the  galleries.  The  very  happiest  days  of 
my  life  were  spent  in  Rome." 


IIO  LADY  DYNELY'S   THURSDAY. 

He  looks  down  upon  the  dusk  lovely  face  with  gravel} 
admiring  eyes. 

"But  so  little  of  your  life  has  come,"  that  gaze  says  to 
her,  "  you  have  not  yet  begun  to  live." 

"  There  is  one  thing  about  Rome  which  must  strike  the 
most  casual  observer,"  says  Dennison,  suddenly,  seized  with 
a  second  idea,  "  and  that  is,  the  lamentable  dearth  of 
Roman  noses  !  They  were  snubs,  give  you  my  word,  when 
I  was  there,  one  half.  My  own,"  says  Terry,  glancing  com 
placently  at  an  opposite  mirror,  "  was  the  noblest  Roman  of 
'em  all ! " 

Miss  Forrester  giving  the  prominent  feature  Terry  ad 
mired  a  rebuking  tap  with  her  fan,  led  the  way  into  an  ante 
room,  hung  with  crimson  velvet,  emblazoned  with  the  arms 
and  motto  of  the  Dynelys  : 

"  Loyal  au  mort." 

He  glances  at  these  emblazoned  splendors  as  he  passes, 
and  follows  his  fair  leader  into  a  long  gallery,  hung  from 
floor  to  ceiling  with  pictures. 

"  Lady  Dynely  is  a  lover  of  art,  and  her  collection  is 
very  fine.  Here  is  a  face  by  Titian,  one  of  the  gems  of  the 
room." 

"Doesn't  look  unlike  you,  France — 'pon  my  word  it 
doesn't—  the  eyes,  the  hair,  and  the  yellowish  complexion — • 
well,  it  isn't  yellow,  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  One  of 
his  wives,  isn't  it  ?  These  old  masters  always  had  three  or 
four,  hadn't  they — one  buried,  'tother  come  on.  You  ought 
to  marry  a  man  of  genius,  France :  you  would  make  a 
capital  wife  for  one,  wouldn't  you  ?  a  sort  cf  moral  spur  in 
his  side,  urging  him  on  to  perpetual  efforts.  If  he  were  in 
Parliament  you  would  have  him  a  premier,  if  he  were  an 
artist  you  would  have  him  a  Michael  Angelo,  if  musical,  a 
Beethoven,  eh?  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  geniuses,"  Miss  Forrester  makes  answer, 
"  I  have  also  seen  their  wives.  And,  my  dear  Terry,  the 
wife  of  a  man  of  genius  is  a  social  martyr,  who  carries  the 
cross  while  her  husband  wears  the  crown." 

"  And  vice  versd"  says  Terry  ;  "  or,  stay — is  it  vice  vers&  1 
The  husband  of  a  woman  of  genius  is  a — " 


LADY  DYNELY'S    THURSDAY.  m 

"  There  are  no  women  of  genius,"  answers  Franco,  with 
a  little  sarcastic  shrug.  "You  monopolize  all  that. 
Women  never  write  books,  or  paint  pictures,  or  carve 
statues.  George  Eliot,  Rosa  Bonheur,  Miss  Hosmer,  etc., 
all  are  myths.  Genius  is  the  prerogative  of  our  lord  and 
master — Man." 

"You  infringe  on  your  master's  prerogative  then,"  says 
Mr.  Locksley,  smiling.  "  How  very  cynical  you  are  pleased 
to  be,  Miss  Forrester." 

"I  have  always  thought  it  a  thousand  pities  France 
wasn't  born  in  New  Y'ork,"  cuts  in  Mr.  Dennison.  "  She 
could  mount  the  rostrum,  as  they  all  seem  to  do  there,  and 
spout  until  the  welkin  rang  on  the  subject  of  down-trodden 
woman  and  her  natural  enemy  and  tyrant — Man.  She  is 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  strong-minded,  is  Miss  France 
Forrester.  And  now  if  you  can  possibly  survive  half  an 
hour  without  me,  France,  I'll  tear  myself  from  your  side. 
I  am  engaged  for  the  next  waltz,  and  I  hear  the  opening 
bars  afar  off." 

Then  Mr.  Dennison  saunters  leisurely  away,  and  Miss 
Forrester  and  Mr.  Locksley  are  alone  among  the  pictures. 
They  linger  long,  criticising,  admiring,  talking  of  Rome,  of 
art  and  artists,  and  the  picturesque,  poetic  life  there.  "  I 
think  I  was  born  to  be  a  Bohemian,"  she  says,  with  her 
frank  laugh,  "  and  have  somehow  missed  my  destiny.  It  is 
such  a  free,  bright,  untrammelled  sort  of  life,  ever  new  and 
full  of  variety.  Here  it  seems  to  be  over  and  over  the 
same  tiresome,  treadmill  round.  I  haven't  wearied  of  it 
yet  in  spite  of  my  scepticism,  the  bloom  is  not  yet  brushed 
off  my  peach,  but  I  know  that  day  will  come.  Mr.  Locks- 
ley,"  changing  tone  and  subject,  abruptly,  "is  your  picture 
sold  ?  " 

"  Sold  two  hours  before  I  came  here,"  he  answers,  and 
tells  her  of  the  hurried  transaction  over  the  garden  gate. 

"  The  Prince  Di  Venturini,"  she  repeats  ;  "  and  for  a 
lady.  Who  can  she  be?  The  prince  is  here  to-night — I 
shall  ask  him.  I  am  sorry  it  is  sold.  Lady  Dynely  wishes 
very  much  to  add  it  to  her  collection.  The  face  of  that 
woman  has  haunted  me  ever  since." 


H2  LADY  DYNELY'S   THURSDAY. 

His  bronzed  face  pales  a  little,  a  troubled  look  comes  into 
his  eyes.  She  sees  it,  and  her  girlish  curiosity  deepens. 
She  cannot  understand  her  interest  in  this  man,  her  interest 
in  that  picture,  but  both  are  there. 

"Is  she  still  alive?"  she  asks,  carelessly — "your 
model?" 

"  Miss  Forrester,  I  painted  that  picture  from  memory,  as 
I  think  I  have  told  you." 

"  Then,  your  model  was  in  your  mind.  But  you  have  not 
answered  my  question.  Is  the  owner  of  that  wonderful  face 
still  alive  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  believe  not — I  hope  not." 

"  Mr.  Locksley  ! " 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  repeats,  moodily.  "  A  wicked  wish,  is 
it  not,  Miss  Forrester  ?  But  such  women  as  that  are  better 
out  of  the  world  than  in  it." 

"  How  very  beautiful  she  must  have  been,"  France  says, 
dreamily  ;  "  even  with  that  tortured  look  you  give  her,  she 
is  beautiful  still." 

"  She  was.     The  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw." 

It  is  not  a  flattering  answer,  but  France  Forrester  is  not 
offended.  A  little  out  of  the  line  of  demure  young  ladyhood, 
she  certainly  might  be  frank  and  outspoken  at  times  to  a 
startling  degree,  but  honest  as  a  child  and  vain  not  at  all. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  her  judge  and  accuser  in  that  pic 
ture?"  she  thinks,  and  looks  up  at  him.  "I  wonder  in 
what  way  that  woman  ever  wronged  you  ?  " 

He  catches  her  glance  and  understands  it.  A  smile  breaks 
up  the  dark  gravity  of  his  face  as  he  looks  down  at  her. 

"You  honor  my  poor  painting  too  much,  Miss  Forrester, 
by  your  interest,"  he  says ;  "  for  the  story  it  tells — that  is 
over  and  done  with  many  a  long  year  ago.  The  woman  I 
have  painted  is  one  not  worthy  a  second  thought  from  you — 
a  woman  who  spoiled  my  whole  life,  whom  I  have  reason  to 
believe  dead,  and  whom,  were  she  alive,  I  would  go  to  the  other 
end  of  the  earth  sooner  than  meet.  Why  I  painted  that  I 
hardly  know — it  was  the  whim  of  a  moment — that  it  would 
have  the  success  it  has  met  with  I  did  not  dream." 

She  colors  slightly,  he  seems  to  have  rebuked  her  irrepres- 


LADY  DYNELY'S    THURSDAY.  n^ 

sible  curiosity.  There  is  a  romance  then  in  this  man's  life — • 
girl-like,  that  thought  deepens  her  interest  in  him.  A  gentle 
man  born  she  instinctively  feels  he  is,  this  artist  who  paints 
for  his  daily  bread,  who  has  been  a  soldier  of  fortune  for 
twelve  years.  Miss  Forrester  is  by  nature  a  hero-worshipper, 
as  Terry  has  said.  And  Mr.  G.  Locksley,  whoever  he  is, 
takes  his  place  immediately  on  some  vacant  pedestal  in  her 
mind,  to  be  numbered  among  the  heroes  of  her  dreams 
henceforth. 

They  say  no  more  about  "  How  the  Night  Fell."  They 
linger,  though,  yet  a  little  longer  among  the  immortals  in  the 
long  gallery.  Mr.  Locksley  seems  in  no  haste,  and  France 
feels  an  odd,  altogether  new  pleasure,  in  lingering  and  listen 
ing  to  his  grave,  quiet  remarks,  an  odd  distaste  for  returning 
to  the  perfumed  warmth,  and  glitter,  and  crush  of  the  outer 
rooms.  But  they  go  there  presently,  for  all  that,  and  at  her 
suggestion.  She  will  be  missed,  and  she  has  a  vague  recol 
lection  that  she  has  promised  the  Prince  Di  Venturini  a 
waltz. 

"And  I  will  find  out  who  has  purchased  Mr.  Locksley's 
picture,"  the  little  diplomat  says  to  herself;  "  it  is  evident  he 
is  as  curious  about  it  as  I  am." 

Prince  Di  Venturini  is  talking  Italian  politics  eagerly  to  a 
knot  of  starred  and  decorated  gentlemen,  but  he  breaks 
away,  and  comes  up  to  France  as  their  waltz  begins.  As 
they  float  slowly  away  she  plunges  into  her  grievance  at  once. 

"  It  is  unpardonable  of  you,  prince,  to  have  purchased  the 
gem  of  the  Academy.  I  mean  of  course  '  How  the  Night 
Fell.'  I  intended  to  have  had  it  myself." 

"  Mais,  Mon  Dieu!"  cried  the  prince,  in  his  shrill  Nea 
politan  French.  "  I  did  not  purchase  it.  All  the  ladies  fall 
in  love  with  it  at  sight,  I  believe.  How  fortunate  are  these 
artists." 

"  You  did  not  purchase  it ! "  France  repeats  in  surprise. 
"  Mr.  Locksley  told  me—" 

"  Ah,  yes,  Mr.  Locksley  told  you,  without  doubt.  Still,  I 
did  not  buy  the  picture  for  myself — I  am  not  the  pet  of  the 
public.  I  have  not  thousands  to  throw  away  on  a  whim. 
It  was  Felicia." 


H4  LADY  DYNELY'S   THURSDAY. 

11  Felicia,  the  actress  !  the—" 

"  Star  of  the  Royal  Bijou  Theatre.  Yes,  mademoiselle, 
and  at  a  most  fabulous  price.  To  wish  and  to  have  are 
synonyms  with  Felicia." 

Th^re  is  silence  as  they  float  around.  Miss  Forrester's 
dark,  rose-crowned  head  is  lifted  over  the  top  of  his  small, 
yellow  excellency's  two  good  inches.  She  feels  it  to  be  some 
thing  more  than  annoying — a  positive  adding  of  insult  to  in 
jury,  that  this  popular  danseuse  should  have  won  what  she 
has  lost. 

It  wears  late  ;  the  evening  ends.  One  by  one  coroneted 
carriages  roll  away,  and  Mr.  Locksley  comes  after  some 
lofty  personage,  with  ribbons  and  orders,  and  takes  leave 
of  Lady  Dynely. 

"  We  hope  to  see  you  every  Thursday,  Mr.  Locksley," 
that  lady  says,  very  graciously,  and  Mr.  Locksley  mur 
murs  his  acknowledgment,  and  pledges  himself  to  noth 
ing. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  genius,  France  ?  "  inquires  Terry 
Dennison.  "  Does  he  bear  the  ordeal  of  close  inspection, 
or  does  distance  lend  enchantment  to  the  view,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  Cheapside  tailor's  son  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Locksley  isn't  a  genius,"  Miss  Forrester  replies, 
trailing  her  silk  splendor  up  the  stairs,  "  only  a  clever 
artist,  who  has  painted  one  good  picture,  and  may  never 
paint  another.  There  are  many  such  in  all  walks  of  life,  my 
dear  child.  Good-night,  Terry — pleasant  dreams." 

' '  Good-night,  France — morning  rather ;  and  my  dreams 
will  not  be  of  you." 

"  Ingrate  !     Of  whom  then  ?  " 

"  Of  a  little  girl  down  in  Lincolnshire.  You  don't  know 
her,  Miss  Forrester,  and  she  would  stand  abashed  in  your 
regal  presence.  But,  ah  !  there's  nothing  like  her  under  the 
London  sun." 

And  Terry's  blue  eyes  are  absolutely  luminous  as  he  van 
ishes. 

"  Another  heart  gone !  "  reflects  Miss  Forrester,  as  she 
closes  her  door  ;  "  and  so  it  goes  on.  '  Men  may  come  and 
men  may  go,  but  that  goes  on  forever  ! '  Poor,  good,  honest 


LAL  Y  D  YNEL  Y'  S    THl  rRSDA  Y.  u^ 

Terry  !  I  hope  your  course  of  true  love  will  run  smooth  at 
least.  You  are  one  of  the  exceptional  men  who  do  make 
the  women  you  marry  happy." 

Miss  Forrester  rings  for  her  maid,  and  her  mind  goes  off 
at  another  tangent. 

"So  Felicia  has  purchased  Mr.  Locksley's  picture! 
The  dancer  has  taste.  By  the  bye,  we're  due  at  the 
Royal  Bijou  to-morrow  night.  She  is  very  handsome  ;  but 
these  people  owe  all  their  beauty,  I  suppose,  to  paint,  and 
powder,  and  wigs.  She  dances  exceptionally  well,  too  ;  but 
she  need  not  have  been  in  such  haste  buying  that  picture." 

She  pauses  in  her  wandering  thoughts.  Her  eye  falls  upon 
a  letter  lying  on  her  dressing-table,  under  the  clustering  wax- 
lights.  It  bears  the  Roman  post-mark,  and,  with  a  little  ex 
clamation  of  joy,  Miss  Forrester  snatches  it  up. 

"From  grandmamma  !  "   she  says. 

Mrs.  Caryll  is  in  reality  but  her  father's  distant  cousin, 
but  so  it  pleases  France  to  call  her.  She  breaks  the  seal 
and  reads  eagerly  through.  After  a  few  preliminary  para 
graphs,  this  is  what  the  letter  said : 

"  You  say  nothing,  my  dear  France,  of  Eric's  return. 
Has  he  not  returned  then  ?  It  is  really  unpardonable  of  him 
to  linger  so  long,  knowing  you  are  in  London.  Oh,  my 
daughter  !  I  hope — I  pray  nothing  may  occur  to  break  off 
this  alliance.  I  am  fond  of  Eric — I  love  you.  To  see  you 
his  happy  wife  is  the  desire  of  my  heart.  It  is  his  mother's 
dearest  wish  also.  In  every  respect  it  is  most  suitable — 
both  dowered  with  youth  and  wealth  and  beauty.  He  loves 
you  I  am  sure,  France,  and  would  have  spoken  before  now 
had  you  let  him.  But  you  have  laughed  at  him  and  made 
light  of  his  wishes  hitherto.  And  you  are  of  so  peculiar  a 
nature,  my  dearest  child,  so  unlike  other  girls  of  your  age. 
so  self-willed,  and  radical  in  your  opinions,  that  I  fear  for 
you.  Not  that  you  would  ever  marry  beneath  you.  I  have 
no  dread  of  that,  you  are  far  too  proud ;  but  you  may  meet 
some  one  whom  your  fancy  will  idealize,  whom  you  cannot 
marry,  and  who  will  wreck  the  happiness  of  your  life.  Some 
thing — I  do  not  know  what,  tells  me  this  will  be  so.  Guard 
against  it — let  your  engagement  with  Eric  be  announced  to 


1 1 6  LAD  Y  D  YNEL  Y '  S   THURSDA  Y. 

the  world  immediately  it  takes  place.     And  write  at  once, 
my  dear,  dear  daughter,  to  your  most  affectionate 

"  MARIAN  CARYLL." 

She  threw  the  letter  aside  with  a  quick  gesture  of  irritated 
impatience.  As  a  rule,  she  was  not  petulant,  and  all  Mrs. 
CarylPs  wishes  carried  force,  but  just  now  she  felt  intolerant 
of  this  husband  thrust  upon  her,  whether  she  would  or  no. 

"  Eric  Dynely,"  she  said,  "  a  masculine  wax  doll,  a  per 
fumed  coxcomb,  a  dandy  of  the  first  water  !  I  hate  dandies  ! 
I  detest  pretty  men !  I  would  sooner  marry  Terry  Denni- 
son  any  day  ! " 

One  of  the  windows  stood  open  ;  the  soft,  chill  morning 
breeze  stirred  the  curtains  of  silk  and  lace  ;  she  put  them 
aside  and  leaned  out  into  the  fresh  coolness,  the  faint  light 
of  the  dawn  glimmering  on  her  pink  silk,  her  roses  and 
diamonds. 

"  The  day  for  this  sort  of  marriage  should  have  ended  a 
century  ago,"  she  thinks,  full  of  impatient  pain  ;  "this  kind 
of  alliance  should  be  left  to  royalty.  But  noblesse  oblige, 
it  seems  to  be  my  fate.  He  is  very  well,  the  best  waltzer 
I  know,  the  best  second  in  a  duet,  he  has  the  bow  and 
grace  of  a  Beau  Bmmmel — the  good  looks  of  an  Apollo 
— what  more  can  one  want  ?  And  yet  one  does.  Loves 
me,  does  he,  grandmamma  ?  Ah,  no  !  Eric,  Viscount 
Dynely,  fell  in  love  many  years  ago — with  himself,  and  will 
be  the  victim  of  that  passion  all  his  life.  And  after  all  the 
dreams  and  the  hero  worship  they  laugh  at,  I  am  to  marry 
Eric  Dynely  ! " 

Then  through  the  mists  of  the  morning  there  floats  be 
fore  her  a  face,  brown,  bearded,  grave,  with  deep  lines  of 
care  and  thought  seamed  upon  it,  with  threads  of  silver 
gleaming  through  the  fairness  of  his  hair,  a  man  who  had 
been  a  leader  of  men,  a  man  who  had  lived  and  suffered. 

"  You  may  meet  some  one  your  fancy  will  idealize,  whom 
you  cannot  marry,  and  who  will  wreck  the  happiness  of  your 
life." 

Was  Mrs.  Caryll  among  the  prophets  ? 


CHAPTER  V. 

LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME. 

! HE  leafy  greenness  of  May,   the  soft  and  veiled 
warmth  of  June,  had  passed  ;  the  feverish  noontides 
of  July  had  come,  and  Lady  Dynely's  only  son  had 
not  returned  from  his  idle  wanderings  to  woo  and 
win  his  bride. 

To  France  Forrester  this  first  season  of  hers  had  been 
bright  and  beautiful  as  a  fairy  tale.  She  had  been  presented 
by  Lady  Dynely,  had  created,  as  the  critics  of  the  Academy 
had  predicted,  a  sensation.  A  certain  royal  personage, 
whose  approval  was  a  patent  right  and  seal  of  popularity  in 
itself,  had  condescended  to  place  his  gracious  stamp  of  ap 
probation  upon  her,  and  Miss  Forrester  awoke  and  found 
herself  "  the  fashion."  "  The  fashion  !  "  these  two  magic 
words  told  the  whole  story.  Women  slandered  her  fiercely, 
hated  her  bitterly,  and  copied  everything  she  wore,  from  her 
coquettish  head-gear  to  her  little  boots.  Men  diplomatized 
for  the  favor  of  a  waltz,  as  they  might  for  princely  prefer 
ment  In  the  ride,  in  the  ball-room,  and  opera-box,  Miss 
Forrester  was  still  the  best  surrounded  lady  of  the  assembly, 
the  belle  des  belles.  "  And  why  is  it  ?  "  her  envious  com 
peers  asked.  "It  isn't  her  beauty  ;  there  are  scores  more 
perfectly  and  classically  beautiful  than  she,  with  her  dark 
skin  and  irregular  features."  Was  it  the  dashing  independ 
ence  of  her  manner,  the  careless  audacity  with  which  she 
looked  into  their  eyes,  and  laughed  at  their  flatteries,  and 
threw  them  lightly  over  as  whiffs  of  thistle-down  ?  She  was 
so  thoroughly  heart-whole,  so  perfectly  indifferent  to  their 
homage,  that  she  piqued  their  vanity — always  a  man's 
strongest  feeling — and  rendered  them,  by  that  imperious 
grace  of  hers,  her  veriest  slaves.  Whether  she  talked  Italian 
politics  to  Prince  Di  Venturini,  with  his  wizen,  murky  face, 


H8        LOVE   TOOK  UP  THE    GLASS  OF   TIME. 

and  beady  black  eyes,  or  the  newest  opera  with  Signer  Carlo 
Dolce,  the  new  Venetian  tenor,  whether  she  discoursed  art 
with  long-haired,  dreamy-eyed  students,  and  stately  academi 
cians,  or  the  latest  Belgravian  gossip  with  a  dashing  military 
duke,  it  was  all  the  same.  She  was  interested  in  the  theme, 
not  the  man ;  her  heart,  if  she  possessed  one,  was  triply 
clad  in  steel — no  one,  it  seemed,  had  power  to  touch  it. 
And  then,  presently  it  leaked  out  that  she  had  been  engaged 
for  years  to  Lord  Dynely,  and  that  the  engagement  would 
be  publicly  anounced  to  all  whom  it  might  concern,  imme 
diately  upon  his  return  to  England.  "  He  must  have  great 
faith  in  his  affianced,"  said  the  sneerers  ;  he  certainly  seemed 
in  no  hot  haste  to  join  her.  This  was  after  Miss  Forrester 
had  said  "no"  to  two  of  the  most  eligible  gentlemen  of  the 
season,  and  who  had  followed  her  about  the  summer  through, 
like  her  lap-dog  or  her  shadow. 

This  season,  which  had  been  such  a  brilliant  career  of 
victory  to  Miss  Forrester,  had  been  a  very  busy  one  for  Mr. 
Locksley  the  painter.  Orders  flowed  in — his  fame  and  for 
tune  seemed  made.  Madame  Felicia  sent  by  the  prince  for 
a  companion  picture  to  "  How  the  Night  Fell."  The  Mar 
quis  of  St.  Albans  had  ordered  a  Canadian  winter  scene. 
Lady  Dynely  wished  to  have  her  own  portrait  painted  for 
her  son.  The  sittings  for  this  portrait  necessitated  many 
visits  to  the  Brompton  Studio,  and  Miss  Forrester  was 
almost  invariably  my  lady's  companion.  She  wandered 
about  among  the  paintings  at  will,  whilst  the  elder  lady  sat 
or  lay  back,  and  listened  with  half-closed  eyes  to  Mr.  Locks- 
ley  talking  whilst  he  painted.  He  talked  well,  and  as  he 
seemed  to  have  been  pretty  much  everywhere,  found  sub 
jects  enough.  Anecdotes  of  his  Indian  life,  the  fighting,  the 
campaigning,  the  pig-sticking,  stories  of  the  American  civil 
war,  thrilling  and  vivid  as  truth  could  make  them,  of  Canada, 
with  its  brief,  hot  summers,  and  long,  cold  winters,  until  the 
hours  of  each  sitting  were  gone  like  a  dream. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Locksley  is  a  charming  companion,"  Lady 
Dynely  was  wont  to  say ;  "  talks  better  than  any  man  I 
know.  What  a  traveller  he  has  been — been  everywhere 
and  seen  everything." 


LOVE    TOOK  UP  THE    GLASS  OF   TIME.        ng 

* 

It  was  a  subject  upon  which  Miss  Forrestei  was  suspici 
ously  reticent — Mr.  Locksley  and  the  charm  of  his  conver 
sation.  And  yet,  though  she  would  not  have  owned  it  even 
to  herself,  those  hours  in  the  Brompton  cottage,  sitting  by  the 
open  window  watching  the  afternoon  sun  sink  behind  the 
tree-tops,  leaving  a  trail  of  splendor  behind,  with  the 
scent  of  the  summer  roses  perfuming  the  air,  while  Mr. 
Locksley  painted  and  talked,  and  Lady  Dynely  sat  and  lis 
tened,  were  the  pleasantest  hours  of  her  life.  All  were 
pleasant ;  this  summer  took  a  glory  and  a  bliss  none  other 
had  known  ;  but  these  were  the  foam  of  life's  champagne. 

She  and  Mr.  Locksley  met  tolerably  often  elsewhere. 
He  still  attended  at  intervals  Lady  Dynely's  Thursdays,  and 
there  were  literary  and  artistic  gatherings  where  Miss  For 
rester  met  him.  It  was  curious  on  these  occasions  to  note 
the  restless  light  in  the  great  hazel  eyes,  the  quick,  impatient 
glances  at  the  door,  the  sudden  stillness  that  came  over  her 
when  a  new  name  was  announced,  the  swift  shade  of  an 
noyed  impatience,  or  the  glad,  quick  light  and  warmth  that 
spread  over  her  face,  as  it  was  or  was  not  the  name  she 
wished  to  hear.  And  somehow — certainly  it  was  not  Mr. 
Locksley's  doing;  he  was  the  most  modest,  least  presuming 
of  men — presently  he  found  himself  by  Miss  Forrester's  side, 
holding  the  little  gloved  hand  she  extended  in  frank,  friendly 
greeting,  and  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  her  sunniest  smiles. 
In  the  park,  too,  leaning  over  the  rails,  smoking  his  twilight 
cigar,  Mr.  Locksley  was  often  favored  with  a  gracious  bow 
from  a  certain  coroneted  carriage,  and  a  dark,  lovely  face, 
framed  in  a  marvel  of  Parisian  lace  and  rosebuds,  shone 
upon  him  for  an  instant  like  a  dusk  star.  That  tall,  sol 
dierly  figure,  that  bronzed,  bearded  face,  that  grave  smile  of 
recognition,  Miss  Forrester  would  have  known  among  ten 
thousand. 

And  still  Lord  Dynely  did  not  come. 

"  It  is  very  strange — it  is  incomprehensible,  it  is  most  an 
noying,"  Lady  Dynely  said,  over  and  over  again,  to  herself, 
or  to  Terry,  knitting  her  blonde  brows ;  "  I  can't  under 
stand.  So  fond  as  he  used  to  be  of  Fratice,  too,  and  see 
her  now  flirting  with  half  the  men  in  London." 


120       LOVE    TOOK  UP  THE   GLASS  OF  TIME. 

o 

"  I  don't  call  it  flirting,"  Terry  would  respond.  "  France 
can't  help  smiling  on  men  and  turning  their  heads  any  more 
than  the  what's-its-name — sunflower — can  help  turning  the 
sun.  And  if  the  sun  scorches  and  shrivels  them  a  little,  I 
don't  see  that  the  sun  is  to  be  blamed  either.  Sounds  poet 
ical,  that,  don't  it  ?  "  said  Terry,  rather  surprised  at  his  own 
performance. 

"  It  is  unpardonable  of  Eric,"  Lady  Dynely  would  re 
tort,  vexed,  and  almost  angry  with  her  darling ;  "  and  so  I 
shall  tell  him  when  I  write.  Here  it  is  the  end  of  July,  and 
we  go  down  to  Devonshire  next  week.  His  birthday  is  in 
August,  and  who  is  to  tell  us  whether  he  will  even  come 
then.  Of  course  France  must  feel  piqued,  though  she  con 
ceals  her  feelings  so  well." 

"Uncommonly  well,"  says  Terry.  "So  well  that  I  for 
one  am  disposed  to  think  that  she  isn't  in  the  least  annoyed. 
Where  is  Eric  loafing  now  ?  " 

"  Eric  is  still  in  Spain,  and  is  evidently  enjoying  himself," 
says  Eric's  mother,  irritably. 

"  '  The  girls  of  Cadiz/  "  hums  Terry,  under  his  breath. 
"  Well,  don't  worry.  I'll  go  over  and  fetch  him  if  you 
like." 

"  Nonsense,  Terry  !  don't  be  a  simpleton.  What  would 
France  and  I  have  done  all  this  summer  without  you  for  an 
escort  ?  You  have  been  the  best  of  boys,  and  I  know  you 
have  been  longing  more  than  once  to  break  away  and  go 
down  to  Lincolnshire." 

"Your  pleasure  must  ever  be  first  with  me,"  Terry 
answers,  but  he  smothers  a  little  sigh  as  he  says  it  Truth 
to  tell,  he  has  been  longing  many  times  to  break  away  from 
flower  show  and  opera,  party  and  park,  dining  and  dressing, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  rush  down  into  Lincolnshire,  to  the 
old  vicarage  of  his  boyhood,  where  his  loadstar  shines.  But 
Lady  Dynely  wills  it  otherwise,  and  Lady  Dynely's  lightest 
word  is  law  to  Terry. 

"If  I  could  only  have  got  off  duty  for  a  week — just  a 
week,"  he  had  said  pathetically  once  to  France,  "  1  wouldn't 
so  much  mind.  You  see,  she's  just  the  dearest,  sweetest 
little  darling  in  the  world — " 


LOVE    TOOK  UP  THE    GLASS  OF   TIME.        I2i 

"  Of  course,"  interrupts  France,  gravely. 

"And  I've  been  awfully  fond  of  her  ever  since  I  wore 
roundabouts,  and  she  short  muslin  frocks,  tied  up  on  the 
shoulder,  and  I'm  dying  to  tell  her  the  good  news,  my  com 
mission  and  the  five  hundred  a  year  and — and  something 
else."  Terry  suddenly  turns  very  red.  "A  fellow  could 
marry  and  keep  a  wife  on  his  pay  and  five  hundred  a  year, 
couldn't  he,  France  ?  Just  a  little  suburban  villa,  you 
know,  a  pretty  parlor  maid,  and  a  boy  in  buttons,  and  a  one- 
horse  shay — eh?  Couldn't  they,  France?  My  tastes  ain't 
expensive,  as  Lady  Dynely  said  the  other  day,  and  she — ah 
France  !  I  see  lots  of  girls,  you  know — jolly  girls,  and 
dashing  girls,  and  pretty  girls,  but  not  one — no,  I  give  you 
my  word,  not  one-half  as  good,  or  sweet,  or  pretty,  as  my 
little  Crystal!" 

Miss  Forrester  is  Terry's  confidante  ;  he  gets  on  with  her. 
For  Lady  Dynely,  much  as  he  loves  and  venerates  her,  or 
rather  because  of  that  great  love  and  veneration,  he  stands 
in  awe  of  her.  But  France  sympathizes  with  him,  more 
than  ever  in  these  later  days,  and  listens  dreamily,  while  Mr. 
Dennison  pours  forth  the  story  of  his  love. 

"  What  a  good  fellow  you  are,  Terry,"  she  says  now  re 
gretfully.  "  It  is  a  pity  to  throw  you  away  upon  any  insipid 
little  country  girl.  (I  know  by  her  photograph  she  is 
insipid.)  I  have  half  a  mind  to  fall  in  love  with  you 
myself." 

"Oh,  but  don't,  please!"  says  Terry,  piteously  ;  "let  it 
be  half  a  mind,  don't  make  it  a  whole  one.  If  you  insisted 
upon  it,  I  should  knock  under  at  once — women  can  always 
do  what  they  please  with  me,  and  then  two  clever  people 
should  never  marry — it  doesn't  work  ;  besides,  you  belong 
to  Eric." 

"  Do  I  ?  "  France  responds,  gravely.  "  I  am  not  so  sure 
of  that.  Eric  seems  in  no  hurry  to  come  and  claim  his 
belongings." 

"  It's  a  shame,"  says  Terry;  "and  so  Lady  Dynely  has 
just  been  saying.  She's  awfully  angry.  Eric  deserves  to  be 
shot." 

"  '  The  absent  are  always  in  the  wrong,'  "  Miss  Forrester 
G 


122        LOVE    TOO?   UP  THE    GLASS   OF   TIME. 

quotes.  "  I  don't  see  why  my  lady  should  be  angry  with 
Eric — I'm  not.  Let  the  poor  boy  enjoy  himself.  But,  for 
you,  Terry,  you  shall  go  down  to  Lincolnshire  to-morrow,  if 
you  wish  it.  It  is  too  bad,  and  too  selfish  of  us,  to  keep 
you  tied  to  our  apron-strings  when  the  prettiest  and  sweetest 
girl  in  England  is  pining  for  you  among  the  Lincolnshire  fens 
and  marshes.  I  shall  speak  to  Lady  Dynely,  at  once. 
Yours  is  the  most  aggravated  case  of  *  cruelty  to  animals '  on 
record." 

"No,  no  !  It  may  annoy  Lady  Dynely — I  would  not  for 
the  world.  My  affairs  can  wait,"  Terry  remonstrates  in 
alarm. 

"So  can  ours.  I  am  very  fond  of  my  lady,  but  I  don't 
worship  the  ground  she  walks  on,  as  some  people  do.  I 
shall  ask  her." 

Miss  Forrester  kept  her  word.  She  sought  out  Lady 
Dynely,  and  broached  the  subject  at  once. 

"  Lady  Dynely,  can't  you  let  Terry  off  duty  for  a  couple 
of  weeks?  The  poor  fellow  is  falling  a  prey  '  to  green  and 
yellow  melancholy,'  and  the  '  worm  i'  the  bud  is  preying  on  his 
damask  cheek.'  In  plain  English,  he's  in  love  ;  and  now 
that  your  generosity  has  given  him  something  to  live  on,  lie 
naturally  wants  to  go  and  tell  her — wants  to  lay  his  hand 
and  fortune  at  her  feet,  and  do  the  '  come,  share  my  cottage, 
gentle  maid '  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

France  spoke  lightly.  Lady  Dynely  laid  down  her  pen — 
she  was  writing  that  indignant  protest  to  Master  Eric — and 
looked  up  with  a  face  that  turned  to  the  color  of  ashes. 

"  Wants  to  marry  ! — Terry  !  "  was  all  she  could  say. 

"Naturally.  We  have  made  him  our  '  fetch  and  carry' 
spaniel,  I  know  ;  but  he  is  a  man  for  all  that.  We  have 
treated  him  as  though  he  were  a  page  or  footman  ;  but  he  is 
a  lieutenant  of  dragoons,  and  nearly  twenty-four  years  old. 
Not  a  Methuselah,  certainly,  but  old  enough  to  take  unto 
himself  a  wife  if  he  wishes  to  perpetrate  that  sort  of  imbe 
cility." 

"  Terry !  a  wife  ! "  Then  Lady  Dynely  sits  still,  and 
over  the  gray  pallor  of  her  face  a  look  of  anger  flashes. 
"  It  is  absurd! — it  is  preposterous!  Terry  with  a  wife  1 


LOVE   TOOK  UP  THE    GLASS  OF   TIME.        12$ 

Why,  he  is  only  a  grown-up  baby  himself.  I  will  not  hear 
of  it." 

"  He  is  more  than  three  years  older  than  Eric,"  says  Miss 
Forrester,  her  eyes  kindling  at  this  injustice.  "When  it  is 
Eric's  lordly  will  to  take  a  wife,  you  won't  put  in  that  plea 
of  youth,  will  you  ?  " 

"The  cases  are  altogether  different — there  is  no  compari 
son,"  says  Lady  Dynely,  coldly.  "  Who  is  the  girl  ?  " 

"She  is  one  of  the  Miss  Higginses.  There  are  nine  Miss 
Higginses,"  says  France,  with  a  slight  shudder.  "  She  is  the 
youngest  but  one,  poor  thing.  Terry  and  she  have  been  in 
love  with  each  other  ever  since  they  ate  pap  out  of  the  same 
bowl  and  wore  pinafores.  And  I  think  it  is  a  little  too  bad, 
Lady  Dynely,"  concludes  France,  indignantly,  "that  poor 
Terry  can't  have  a  wife  if  he  wants  one." 

"  Send  Terry  here,"  is  Lady  Dynely's  answer.  "  I  will 
speak  to  him  on  this  subject." 

"  And  don't  be  too  hard  on  the  poor  fellow,"  pleads 
France,  imploringly.  "  Oh,  Lady  Dynely,  he  loves  you  as 
it  is  the  fate  of  few  mothers  to  be  loved.  So  well  that  I 
believe  if  you  order  him  to  give  up  this  girl,  to  go  away  and 
turn  Trappist,  he  will  obey  you.  As  you  are  strong,  be 
merciful — don't  be  hard  on  Terry." 

Then  she  goes,  and  Terry  comes.  He  looks  uncommonly 
foolish  and  guilty,  much  as  he  used  to  do  when  caught  apple- 
stealing  down  in  Lincolnshire  long  ago,  and  was  called  up  be 
fore  the  vicar  to  answer  for  his  crime.  Her  ladyship  is  still 
pale,  very  pale,  her  lips  are  set,  her  eyes  look  anxious,  the 
hands  that  are  folded  in  her  lap  tremble  nervously  at  his 
approach. 

"  What  is  this,  Terry  ?  "  she  asks,  and  her  clear  voice  is 
not  steady.  "  Is  it  a  jest  of  France's,  or  do  you  really  wish 
to—" 

"  Marry  Crystal  Higgins  ?  Yes,  Lady  Dynely,  with  your 
permission,"  Terry  answers,  looking  up  firmly  enough. 

"  You  really  wish  it  ?  " 

"  I  really  wish  it,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Silly  boy,"  Lady  Dynely  says,  "  what  folly  is  this  ?  You 
are  too  young.  Oh,  yes,  Terry,  you  are — you  are  ten  years 


124       LOVE   TOOK  UP  THE   GLASS  OF  TIME 

younger  than  your  years — in  spite  of  all  you  have  lived  in 
the  world,  you  are  as  ignorant  of  it  as  a  girl  in  her  teens.  I 
don't  object  to  that ;  I  like  you  the  better  for  it  indeed.  But 
you  are  not  up  to  the  role  of  Benedick,  the  married  man. 
And  besides,  the  income  that  is  sufficient  for  you,  with  your 
simple  habits,  will  not  suffice  for  a  wife  and  family.  I  can't 
conceive  of  you  in  love,  Terry,  you  who  treat  all  the  young 
ladies  of  your  acquaintance  with  an  indifference  as  unflatter 
ing  as  I  am  sure  it  is  sincere." 

"  I  love  Crystal,"  is  Terry's  answer,  and  his  blue  eyes 
light.  "  I  have  loved  her  pretty  much,  I  think,  since  I  saw 
her  first." 

"  And  she—" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — she  likes  me,  that  I  am  sure  of. 
She  is  only  seventeen,  Lady  Dynely,  and  knows  nothing  of 
the  world  beyond  the  vicarage,  the  village,  and  her  native 
marshes.  And  yet  I  think  when  I  ask  her  to  be  my  wife 
she  will  not  refuse." 

"  You  mean  to  ask  her  then  ?  " 

"  With  your  permission,  Lady  Dynely." 

She  lays  her  hand  on  his  head ;  her  lips  tremble. 

"You  are  a  good  boy,  Terry  ;  it  would  be  difficult  to  be 
hard  to  you  if  one  wished.  But  I  don't  wish.  I  only  ask 
this — postpone  your  visit  for  a  little,  don't  ask  her  to  be 
your  wife  until — until  Eric  comes." 

He  lifts  her  hand  and  kisses  it. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  please,"  he  answers. 

"  Until  Eric  comes,"  she  repeats,  and  that  grayish  pallor 
is  on  her  face,  that  troubled  look  in  her  eyes.  "  I' have 
something  to  tell  him — something  to  tell  you.  When  that  is 
told  you  shall  do  as  you  please- — you  will  be  absolutely  your 
own  master  thenceforth." 

"You  are  not  angry,  Lady  Dynely?"  Terry  asks,  in  a 
troubled  tone. 

"  Angry  !  with  you  ?  Ah,  no,  Terry ;  you  have  never 
given  me  cause  for  anger  in  your  life."  She  sighs  heavily  ; 
she  thinks  of  one,  as  dear  to  her  as  the  very  heart  beating  in 
her  bosom,  who  has  given  her  cause  for  anger  often  enough. 


LOVE    TOOK  UP  THE   GLASS   OF   TIME.        i2$ 

"It  is  a  compact  between  us.  You  will  wait  until  I 
have  told  you  what  I  have  to  tell  before  you  speak  ?  " 

"  I  will  wait,"  he  answers.  And  then,  with  a  troubled, 
mystified  look  on  his  face  he  goes  out.  "  Something  to 
tell ;  what  can  it  be  ?  "  Mr.  Dennison  wonders.  He  is  not 
good  at  guessing;  mysteries  have  never  come  near  his  sim 
ple  life,  and  they  sorely  perplex  and  upset  him  when  they  do. 
For  Lady  Dynely,  she  drops  her  face  in  her  hands  with  a 
passionate  cry. 

"  I  have  put  it  off  so  long,"  she  sobs,  "  and  now  the  day 
is  here — is  here." 

"Well,"  says  Miss  Forrester,  imperiously,  "has  your  supe 
rior  officer  given  you  leave,  Mr.  Dennison  ?  " 

Terry  explains — stammering  a  good  deal.  Not  just  yet — 
he  is  to  wait  until  Eric  comes  home. 

"  Until  Eric  comes  home  !  Grant  me  patience  ! "  is  Miss 
Forrester's  prayer.  "  Now  what  under  the  sun  has  Eric  to 
do  with  it  ?  If  Lady  Dynely  could,  the  whole  world  would 
revolve  at  Eric's  pleasure,  the  sun  only  shine  when  it  was 
his  sovereign  will.  I  need  not  ask,  Mr.  Dennison,  if  you 
mean  to  obey  ?  " 

"You  need  not,  indeed,  Miss  Forrester,"  he  answers, 
coolly  ;  "  I  mean  to  obey." 

She  looks  at  him  curiously — almost  pathetically — and  yet 
with  admiration  too. 

"  I  think  better  of  my  fellow-men,  Terry,  since  I  have 
known  you.  You  give  me  an  exalted  idea  of  human  nature. 
I  thought  gratitude  an  extinct  virtue — went  out  with  the 
dark  ages — you  teach  me  my  mistake.  You  love  and  ven 
erate  Lady  Dynely  in  a  way  that  is  simply  wonderful." 

"She  has  done  so  much  for  me,"  Terry  says,  "no  grati 
tude  can  ever  repay  her." 

"  Yours  will,  don't  be  afraid.  You  will  have  chance 
enough  of  showing  it."  Miss  Forrester  has  thrice  the  worldly 
wisdom  of  poor  Terry.  "  How  was  it  all  ?  Your  relation 
ship  to  the  Dynely  family  seems  somehow  such  a  hazy 
affair.  What  was  your  life  like  before  she  came  for  you  ?  " 

But  on  this  point  Terry's  recollections  are  misty.  A 
troubled  look  crosses  his  face — it  was  all  wretchedness  and 


126       LOVE   TOOK  UP  THE   GLASS  OF   TIME. 

squalor  that  he  vaguely  remembers,  also  that  those  with 
whom  his  early  years  were  spent  were  kind  to  him,  in  a  rude 
sort  of  way.  Out  of  this  blurred  picture,  the  rainy  day 
upon  which  she  entered  their  hovel,  like  a  very  angel  of 
light,  with  her  fair  face  and  rich  garments,  stands  out  clear. 
She  came,  and  all  his  life  changed.  No  mother  could  do 
more  for  a  son  than  she  had  done  for  him. 

"  Could  they  not  ?  "  Miss  Forrester  says,  rather  doubtfully, 
thinking  how  differently  the  lives  of  Eric  and  Terry  are  or 
dered.  But  she  will  not  throw  cold  water  on  his  enthusi 
asm.  It  is  beautiful  in  its  belief  and  simplicity,  this 
worship  of  Lady  Dynely  in  a  world  where  gratitude  is  the 
exception,  not  the  rule. 

"  But  why  did  she  do  it  ?  And  what  claim  have  you 
really  upon  her  ?  "  she  asks. 

Here  Terry  is  "  far  wide  "  again.  His  father  was  some 
sort  of  relation  of  the  late  Lord  Dynely,  that  much  her 
ladyship  told  the  Vicar  of  Starling,  and  that  meagre  scrap  is 
all  Mr.  Dennison  knows  of  himself  or  his  history. 

"  Curious,"  France  says,  thoughtfully,  looking  at  him. 
"  Lady  Dynely  is  the  last  to  adopt  a  ragged  child  through  a 
whim  and  do  for  him  as  she  has  done  for  Terry.  There  is 
something  on  the  cards  we  don't  see,  and  something  I  fancy 
not  quite  fair." 

So  all  thought  of  going  down  into  Lincolnshire  and  mak 
ing  the  eighth  Miss  Higgins  blessed  for  life,  was  given  up  by 
Mr.  Dennison  for  the  present,  and  he  resumed  his  "  fetch  and 
carry  "  duties  as  France  called  them,  and  dutifully  escorted 
his  two  lady  friends  everywhere.  Even  down  to  the  Bromp- 
ton  studio,  which  bored  him  most  of  all,  for  he  didn't  care 
for  pictures,  and  Mr.  Locksley — a  good  fellow  enough — was 
monopolized  by  the  ladies  and  had  no  time  to  attend  to  him. 
The  bright  brief  season — for  Parliament  closed  early  that 
year — was  at  its  end,  all  the  world  of  western  London  were 
turning  their  thoughts  countryvvard,  the  last  sitting  for  Lady 
Dynely' s  poi  trait  was  to  be  given.  While  she  sat,  Miss  For 
rester  prowled  about  as  usual  among  the  pictures,  and  lo  ! 
brought  one  to  light  that  was  a  revelation. 

She  had  seen  them  all  again  and  again.     The  Canadian 


LOVE    TOOK    UP   THE    GLASS   OF    TIME. 


127 


winter  scene  for  the  Marquis,  a  view  from  the  heights  of  Que 
bec,  with  the  river  a  glistening  ribbon  of  frozen  silver-white. 
and  the  ice  cone  of  Montmorency  Falls  piercing  the  vivid 
blue  sky — the  glimpses  of  green  Virginian  forests,  pic 
turesque  negro  quarters,  rich  sketches  of  northern  autumnal 
forests,  all  gorgeous  splashes  of  ruby-red  maple  and  orange 
hemlock,  and  anon  a  glimpse  of  Indian  life,  dusky  white- 
veiled  Arabs,  and  dreary  sketches  of  sandy  plain.  The 
companion  picture  for  Madame  Felicia  was  not  yet  begun. 
And  thus  it  was  that  suddenly  France  came  upon  her 
treasure-trove. 

It  was  hidden  from  view  in  a  dusky  corner  covered  by 
half  a  dozen  larger  canvasses — a  little  thing,  merely  a  sketch, 
but  struck  in  with  a  bold  hand,  with  wonderful  gradation  of 
light  and  shade.  This  is  what  she  saw  : 

An  old-fashioned  garden  ;  a  tangled  mass  of  roses  and 
heliotrope  and  honeysuckle  ;  a  night  sky.  lit  by  a  faint,  new 
moon  ;  the  dim  outline  of  a  stately  mansion  rising  in  the 
background  over  the  black  trees ;  a  girl  in  a  white  dress, 
her  face  uplifted  to  the  night  sky.  In  the  dim  distance,  a 
darker  shadow  among  the  shadows,  his  face  entirely  obscured 
— the  tall  figure  of  a  man  stands  unseen,  watching.  The 
face  of  the  girl  is  France's  own.  The  blood  rushed  to  her 
forehead  as  she  looked,  with  a  shock,  she  could  hardly  have 
told — whether  of  anger  or  joy.  She  understood  the  pic 
ture  in  a  moment,  and  in  that  moment  understood  herself. 
The  figure  in  the  background  was  his — and  he  was  bidding 
her  a  last  farewell.  That  look  of  passionate  love,  of  pas 
sionate  despair — how  dared  he !  With  the  crimson  of 
conscious  guilt  still  red  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  flashed.  Did 
he  suspect  what  until  this  moment  she  had  never  suspected 
herself?  A  suffocating  feeling  of  shame,  of  terror,  seized 
her.  Did  he  suspect — did  he  dare  suspect  that  she  had 
stooped  to  care  for  him  unsought  ? 

Yes,  stooped  !  Was  he  not  a  nameless,  struggling  artist, 
one  of  the  toilers  of  the  earth  ?  And  she — and  then  France 
stopped  and  knew  in  her  inmost  soul  that  though  he  were  a 
beggar,  he  was  the  one  man  of  all  men  born  to  be  her  mas- 
ter. 


128       LOVE    TOOK  UP  THE   GLASS   OF   TIME. 

She  sat  like  one  in  a  trance  looking  at  it — heedless 
how  time  flew,  until  suddenly  a  slip  of  paper  attached  to  the 
back  caught  her  eye. 

It  was  a  short  printed  poem  that  told  the  story  of  the  pic 
ture.  Mechanically  she  took  it  and  read  : 

"  So  close  we  are,  and  yet  so  far  apart ; 

So  close  I  feel  your  breath  upon  my  cheek ; 

So  far  that  all  this  love  of  mine  is  weak 
To  touch  in  any  way  your  distant  heart ; 
So  close,  that  when  I  hear  your  voice  I  start 

To  see  my  whole  life  standing  bare  and  bleak : 

So  far,  that  though  for  years  and  years  I  seek, 
I  shall  not  findthee  other  than  thou  art." 

She  laid  it  down.  There  was  a  step  behind  her,  and  then 
lifting  her  eyes  they  met  his  full.  He  turned  quite  white, 
and  made  a  motion  as  though  to  take  the  picture  from  her 
hand. 

"  Miss  Forrester  !  I  did  not  mean  that  you  should  see 
that." 

"So  I  presume.  You  must  pardon  me  for  having  seen  it, 
all  the  same.  May  I  ask  for  which  of  Mr.  Locksley's 
patrons  is  this  ?  " 

"Miss  Forrester  does  me  less  than  justice,"  he  answered  ; 
"  I  have  not  been  so  presumptuous  as  that.  This  picture 
is  not  to  leave  my  studio.  Have  you  seen  the  poem  ? 
Yes — well,  the  fancy  took  me  to  put  the  story  it  told  on 
canvas.  Almost  in  spite  of  me  the  girl's  face  became  yours. 
It  is  but  an  instant's  work  to  dash  it  out  if  it  displeases 
you." 

"The  picture  is  your  own  ;  you  will  do  as  you  please," 
she  said,  frigidly.  "Ma  mere,  is  the  sitting  over  at  last? 
Shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Your  picture,  France  ?  "  Lady  Dynely  said,  glancing  at 
the  apple  of  discord,  and  putting  up  her  glass.  "  Really  ;  and 
very  well  done.  *  The  Last  Parting.'  But  what  a  despair 
ing  expression  you  give  her,  Mr.  Locksley.  Who  ever  saw 
France  with  such  a  look  as  that  ?  " 

"  No  one,  mother  mine,"  France  said,  gayly.     There  were 


LOVE   TOOK  UP   THE   GLASS   OF   TIME. 


129 


times  when  she  called  Lady  Dynely  by  this  title  and  thus 
gladdened  her  heart.  "  Nor  ever  will.  But  these  artists 
have  such  vivid  imaginations." 

"  I  should  like  you  to  paint  France's  portrait,  really,"  said 
her  ladyship.  "  I  have  none.  What  do  you  say  ?  Throw 
over  your  engagements  and  come  down  to  Dynely  and  do 
me  this  favor." 

"  It  is  quite  impossible,  madame,"  the  artist  answered, 
moodily,  standing  by  his  handiwork  and  looking  down  at  it 
with  gloomy  eyes. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  a  change  came  over  Miss  For 
rester.  The  look  of  hauteur  broke  up,  disappeared,  and 
a  smile  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  after  a  storm  lighted  her 
face. 

"No  one  ever  says  impossible  to  Lady  Dynely,"  she  said, 
in  her  old,  imperiously  charming  tone ;  "  least  of  all 
with  that  look.  And  I  really  should  like  to  see  myself  as 
others  see  me,  on  canvas.  That  is  not  I,  for  I  could  by  no 
possibility  ever  wear  such  a  look  as  that.  You  shall  paint 
my  picture  not  once,  but  twice — once  for  Lady  Dynely  and 
once  for  a  dear  old  lady  in  Rome,  who  will  prize  it  above 
rubies — Grandmamma  Caryll." 

He  looked  up,  a  faint  flash  under  the  golden  tan  of  his 
skin. 

"  You  mean  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Most  certainly.  Let  Felicia  »mit,  and  you  may  follow 
us  down  to  Dynely." 

"  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor,"  chimed  in  Lady  Dynely. 

There  is  a  moment's  pause,  of  strong  irresolution,  France 
can  see.  Then  he  looks  up  and  meets  her  eyes  again. 

"You  are  both  very  good,"  he  says,  quietly.  "I  will 
come." 

«* 


CHAPTER   VI. 


|ALKING  up  and  down  the  pier  of  Saint-Jean- 
sur-Mer,  on  the  Brittany  coast,  under  the  broiling 
sea-side  sun,  waiting  for  the  English  packet  an 
chored  out  in  the  roads,  is  a  young  English  gentle 
man.  The  July  sky  is  blazing  biindingly  here  by  the  sea ; 
the  heat  quivers  like  a  white  mist  over  the  water ;  not  a 
breath  of  air  stirs  the  chestnuts  or  laburnums,  and  the 
streets  of  Saint- Jean  lie  all  baked  and  white  in  the  pitiless, 
brassy  glare  of  that  fierce  midsummer  sun. 

But  in  all  this  tropical  dazzle  and  heat  the  young  English 
man  saunters  up  and  down,  and  looks  cool  and  languid 
still.  His  summer  suit  of  palest  gray  is  the  perfection  of 
taste ;  his  boots,  his  gloves,  perfection  also  ;  and  the  hand 
kerchief  which  he  flirts  once  or  twice  across  his  face  is  of 
finest  cambric,  embroidered  with  a  coronet  and  monogram, 
and  perfumed  with  attar  of  violets.  He  is  tall  and  very 
blonde,  as  shapely  as  a  woman,  broad-shouldered,  slender- 
waisted,  long-limbed,  and  very  handsome.  His  complexion 
is  delicate  as  a  girl's  ;  for  such  blue  eyes  and  blonde  curls 
many  a  fair  one  might  sigh  with  envy  ;  very  handsome,  very 
effeminate.  He  has  a  little  golden  mustache,  waxed  into 
minute  points  ;  a  straw  hat  is  thrown  carelessly  on  his  fair 
hair.  He  is  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  noble,  the  most 
perfect  of  all  men,  in  one  woman's  eyes  at  least.  He  is 
Eii*:,  Lord  Viscount  Dynely.  He  walks  up  and  down,  and 
waits  for  the  boat  which  is  to  convey  him  across  the  chan 
nel,  to  his  home  and  the  lady  he  is  to  marry.  But  he  is  in 
no  hot  haste  about  it ;  he  has  put  off  the  evil  day  as  long 
as  possible. 

France  Forrester  is  a  pretty  girl,  an  elegant  girl,  a  clever 


"THE   LORD    OF    THE  LAND."  131 

girl;  a  suspicion  has  entered  Lord  Dynely's  handsome 
blonde  head  more  than  once  that  she  may  be  even  clev 
erer  than  himself.  TJiat  is  a  drawback.  In  common  with 
all  men  of  good  taste  and  sense,  he  dislikes  clever  women  ; 
a  suspicion  of  blue  in  the  stockings  would  outweigh  the 
charm  of  the  daintiest  foot  and  ankle  on  earth.  Still  it  is  a 
settled  thing  among  the  powers  that  be,  and  poor  France  ex 
pects  it,  no  doubt  ;  and  it  is  less  of  a  bore,  on  the  whole,  to 
yield  gracefully,  and  sacrifice  himself  in  his  youth  and  love 
liness  on  the  altar  of  filial  duty,  than  make  a  fuss  about  it. 
And.  besides,  as  a  wife,  he  really  doesn't  know  any  lady  he 
would  prefer  to  Mrs.  Gary  11' s  heiress. 

At  half-past  ten  he  came  down  to  the  pier  ;  it  is  a  quar 
ter  of  eleven  now,  as  he  sees  by  the  small  jewelled  repeater 
he  draws  from  his  pocket,  and  Lord  Dynely  frowns  a  little. 

"  Confound  it !  "  he  mutters  ;  "  she  promised -to  be  here  at 
half-past,  sharp,  and  now  it  is  a  quarter  of  eleven.  The 
boat  starts  at  eleven.  Won't  she  come  after  all  ?  and  have 
I  been  ruining  my  complexion  and  eyesight  in  this  beastly 
glare  for  the  last  thirty  minutes  for  nothing  ?  " 

Then  he  pauses,  stops,  smiles.  She  is  coming — a  dark- 
eyed,  coquettish  little  Frenchwoman,  charmingly  dressed, 
and  who  possesses  the  good  looks  that  come  from  youth, 
good  health,  good  taste,  and  fine  spirits.  She  is  Lord 
Dynely's  last  flirtee,  met  at  a  Saint-Jean  ball,  where  in  ten 
minutes  she  had  waltzed  herself  completely  into  his  fickle 
affections.  He  had  come  to  Saint-Jean,  from  his  Spanish 
loiterings,  with  the  intention  of  crossing  over  at  once,  and 
lo  !  a  fortnight  had  passed  and  two  merry  black  eyes  and  a 
vivacious  French  tongue  had  held  him  in  rose  chains  ever 
since.  The  two  weeks'  passion  had  grown  triste  now,  and 
he  was  going,  and  madame  had  promised  to  trip  down  and 
bid  him  adieu  on  the  pier.  Such  was  the  gentleman  de 
creed  to  become  France  Forrester's  lord  and  master. 

The  fifteen  minutes  pass  ;  they  talk  very  affectionately,  he 
with  his  tall,  fair  head  bent  devotedly  over  her,  his  eloquent 
MUG  eyes  speaking  whole  encyclopedias  of  undying  devo 
tion.  He  is  one  of  those  men  who  naturally  delight  to 
play  at  love-making,  and  throw  themselves  into  the  moment's 


"THE  LORD   OF   THE  LAND." 

role  with  all  the  depth  that  is  in  them.  One  of  those  men 
born  to  be  worshipped  by  women,  and  to  make  them  suffer 
mercilessly  at  his  hands.  Not  robustly  bad  in  any  way, 
but  simply  without  an  ounce  of  ballast  in  him,  body  or 
soul. 

Eleven  strikes  from  all  the  clocks  of  Saint-Jean-sur-Mer — 
the  fatal  hour  has  come.  There  are  tears  in  madame's  black, 
doll-like  eyes  as  she  whispers  adieu ;  beautifully  pale,  sad 
and  tender  Lord  Eric  looks.  He  waves  the  perfumed 
coroneted  handkerchief  from  the  upper  deck  as  long  as  die 
is  in  sight,  still  mournful  and  pale  to  look  upon  despite  the 
height  of  the  thermometer.  Then  he  laughs,  puts  the  hand 
kerchief  in  his  pocket,  lights  a  rose-scented  cigarette,  selects 
a  shady  spot  on  deck,  orders  his  valet  to  fetch  him  that  last 
novel  of  George  Sand,  and  in  five  minutes  has  as  completely 
forgotten  the  woman  he  has  left  as — the  girl  he  is  going  to. 

He  reaches  London.  It  is  a  desert,  of  course.  Every 
body  has  gone.  Some  three  million  are  left,  but  they  don't 
count.  He  looks  in  weary  disgust  at  the  empty,  sun-scorched 
West  End  streets,  at  the  bleached  parks,  the  forsaken 
Ladies'  Mile,  and  goes  down  at  once  to  Devonshire.  And 
in  the  cool  of  a  perfect  summer  evening  he  reaches  the  vil 
lage  station,  and  as  he  is  not  expected,  is  driven  in  a  fly,  like 
an  ordinary  mortal,  to  the  Abbey  gates.  There  is  a  garden 
party  of  some  kind,  he  sees,  as  he  strolls  languidly  up  to  the 
house.  This  gentleman,  who  has  not  attained  his  majority, 
has  a  certain  weary  and  worn-out  air,  as  though  life  were  a 
very  old  story  indeed,  and  rather  a  tiresome  mistake — the 
"nothing  new,  and  nothing  true,  and  it  don't  signify"  man 
ner  to  perfection. 

It  is  a  most  exquisite  evening.  Overhead  there  is  a  sky 
like  Italy,  golden-gray  in  the  shadow,  primrose  and  pink  in 
the  light,  a  full  moon  rising  over  the  tree-tops,  a  few  bright 
stars  winking  facetiously  down  at  grim  old  earth,  a  faint 
breeze  just  stirring  the  roses,  and  clematis,  and  jessa 
mine,  and  honeysuckle,  and  wafting  abroad  subtle  incense, 
and  the  nightingales  piping  their  musical,  plaintive  vesper 
song.  It  is  unutterably  beautiful,  but  to  all  its  beauty  Lord 
Dynely  is  deaf  and  blind.  It  has  been  a  hot,  stifling  day, 


"THE  LORD   OF   THE  LAND."  133 

that  he  knows ;  it  is  rather  cooler  now,  that  is  all.  What  he 
does  see  is  a  group  of  fair  English  girls,  in  robes  of  white, 
and  pink,  and  pale  green,  playing  croquet  under  the  beeches, 
and  his  tired  eyes  light  a  little  at  the  sight.  Wherever  and 
whenever  Lord  Dynely  may  light  upon  a  pretty  girl,  or  group 
of  them,  all  his  earthly  troubles  vanish  at  once.  It  was  a 
weakness,  many  cynical  friends  said,  inherited  honestly 
enough  from  his  late  noble  father. 

The  group  clicking  the  croquet  balls  did  not  see  him,  but 
as  he  drew  near,  a  lady  standing  on  the  terrace,  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  twilight  shadows,  did,  and  there  was  a 
quick  start,  a  quick  uprising,  and  a  rush  to  meet  him,  a 
glad,  joyful  cry: 

"  Oh,  Eric  !  my  son  !  my  son  ! " 

He  permitted  her  embrace  rather  than  returned  it.  It 
was  too  warm  for  powerful  domestic  emotions  of  any  sort, 
Eric  thought,  and  then  women  always  went  in  for  kissing 
and  raptures  upon  the  smallest  provocation.  He  let  himself 
be  embraced,  and  then  gently  extricated  himself,  and  glanced 
backward  at  the  group. 

"  A  croquet  party,  mother ! "  he  said.  "  Do  I  know 
them  ?  Ah,  yes,  I  see  the  Deveres  and  the  Dorman  girl§  ? 
Is  France —  ?  How  is  France  ?  She  is  not  among  them  ?  " 

"  France  is  somewhere  in  the  grounds.  Oh,  my  boy  !  how 
good  it  seems  to  have  you  at  home  again — how  anxiously  I 
have  awaited  your  coming.  We  expected  you  in  London  at 
the  beginning  of  the  season." 

"We?"  his  lordship  says,  interrogatively. 

"  France  and  I.  Do  you  know,  Eric,  that  France  has 
been  the  sensation  of  the  season,  the  most  admired  girl  in 
London.  Lord  Evergoil  proposed,  and  was  rejected ;  but, 
Eric,  you  ran  a  great  risk." 

"  Did  I  ?  Of  losing  Miss  Forrester  ?  I  could  have  sur 
vived  it,"  he  answers,  coolly. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Eric — you  don't  mean  it,  I  know,"  Lady 
Dynely  says,  with  a  singularly  nervous,  frightened  look. 
"  You  cannot  do  better — it  is  impossible.  She  is  of  one  of 
the  oldest  families  in  the  kingdom  ;  she  is  handsome,  accom 
plished,  and  fascinating,  and  she  comes  into  two  fortunes, 


J34  "THE  LORD  OF   THE  LAND." 

her  own  and  Mrs.  Caryll's.  Eric,  I  shall  break  my  heart  if 
you  do  not  marry  her.'' 

"  Hearts  don't  break,  dear  mother— physicians  have  dis 
covered  that ;  it  is  an  exploded  delusion.  And  as  to  Miss 
Forrester's  accomplishments  and  fascinations,  do  you  know 
I  rather  find  that  sort  of  young  person  hang  heavy  on  hand 
— I  prefer  people  of  less  superhuman  acquirements.  For 
the  fortune — well,  I  may  not  be  a  Marquis  of  Westminster, 
but  the  rent  roll  is  a  noble  one,  and  its  lord  need  never  sell 
himself." 

Lady  Dynely  has  turned  quite  white — a  dead,  gray  pallor 
— as  she  listens.  Is  he  going  to  throw  over  France  and 
her  fortune  after  all  ?  Must  she  tell  him  the  truth  in  order 
to  make  him  speak  ?  Before  she  can  turn  to  him  again,  he 
speaks,  more  cheerfully  this  time. 

"Time  enough  for  all  that,"  he  says  ;  "don't  look  so  pale 
and  terrified,  mother  mine.  One  would  think  I  were  a  pau 
per,  reduced  to  heiress-hunting  or  starvation.  Where  is 
France  ?  I  will  go  in  search  of  her,  and  pay  my  respects." 

"  She  went  down  the  lime  walk  half  an  hour  ago  with  Mr. 
Locksley." 

*'  Mr.  Locksley  ?     A  new  name.     Who  is  Mr.  Locksley  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Locksley  is  an  artist ;  he  is  painting  France's  por 
trait.  He  made  a  hit  at  the  Academy  this  year,  and  1  pre 
vailed  upon  him  to  come  with  us  down  here." 

"  Oh,  you  did  !  And  he  is  received  enfamille,  I  suppose, 
and  France  takes  solitary  strolls  with  him,  does  she  ?  "  re 
sponds  Eric,  lifting  his  eyebrows.  "It  seems  to  me,  my  good 
mother,  you  don't  look  after  your  only  son's  interests  so  very 
sharply  after  all.  The  lime  walk,  did  you  say  ?  I  will  go 
and  flush  this  covey  at  once." 

He  turns  away.  His  mother  stands  where  he  has  left  her 
and  watches  the  tall,  slender  figure,  the  slow,  graceful  walk. 

"  He  grows  handsomer  every  year,"  she  thinks^'in  her  love 
and  admiration.  "  Go  where  I  will  I  see  nothing  like  him. 
Oh,  my  boy !  if  you  only  knew  that  you  may  be  a  very 
pauper  indeed.  That  on  the  mercy  of  Terry  Dennison 
your  whole  fortune  may  hang.  If  I  could  only  summon 
courage  and  end  all  this  deception,  and  secrecy,  and  sus- 


"  THE  LORD   OF   THE  LAXD: 


135 


pense  at  once.  Terry  is  so  good,  so  generous,  he  loves  me 
so  ;  he  is  fonder  of  Eric  than  any  brother ;  he  would  rather 
die  than  give  me  pain.  That  is  my  only  hope.  If  the  sins 
of  the  father  must  be  visited  on  the  children,  oh,  let  not  my 
darling  be  the  one  to  suffer." 

A  selfish,  a  weak  prayer,  but  passionately  earnest  at 
least.  Her  darling  had  faded  from  her  view,  and  her  tear- 
filled  eyes  turned  to  another  figure  taller  still,  with  all  the 
grace  and  elegant  languor  wanting,  only  manly  strength  and 
vigor  in  their  place.  His  deep  laugh  comes  to  her  at  the 
moment,  clear  and  merry  as  any  school-boy's. 

"  Terry  will  have  mercy,"  she  thinks ;  "he  is  the  soul  of 
generosity,  and  his  wants  are  so  simple,  his  ambitions  so 
few.  With  his  commission,  his  five  hundred  a  year,  and  the 
vicar's  daughter  for  his  wife,  he  will  ask  no  more  of  fate.  I 
will  tell  him  when  he  returns  from  Lincolnshire,  and  I  know, 
I  feel,  all  will  be  well.  And  yet," — her  eyes  went  wistfully 
over  the  fair  expanse  of  park  and  woodland,  and  glade  and 
terrace,  flower  garden  and  fountains,  all  silvered  in  the  radi 
ance  of  the  summer  moon — "  it  is  a  great  sacrifice — a  sacri 
fice  not  one  man  in  a  hundred  would  make." 

Meantime  Lord  Dynely  had  strolled  down  the  lime  walk, 
and  emerged  upon  a  sylvan  nook,  commanding  a  view 
of  forest  near,  and  the  distant  shining  sea.  Its  soft  wash 
reached  the  ear — the  moon  left  a  track  of  radiance  as  it 
sailed  up  the  serene  sky.  And  this  is  the  picture  his  lord 
ship  saw : 

In  a  dress  of  gauzy  white,  Miss  Forrester  sat  in  a 
rustic  chair,  blue  ribbons  floating,  trailing  roses  in  the  rich 
brownness  of  her  hair,  a  great  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley 
in  her  lap,  another  cluster  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  Her 
coquettish  "  Dolly  Varden"  hat  lay  on  the  grass  beside  her 
— her  eyes  were  fixed,  full  of  dreamy  light,  on  the  shining 
sky  and  sea,  and  the  man  who  lay  on  the  sward  at  her  feet, 
reading  aloud.  Poetry,  of  course,  Tennyson  of  course,  and 
"  Maud  "  as  it  chanced. 


I  said  to  the  rose,  *  The  brief  night  goes 
In  revel,  and  babble,  and  wine  ; 


"THE  LORD   OF   THE  LAND." 


Oh  !  young  lord  lover  !  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  who  will  never  be  thine, 
But  mine,  but  mine  !  '     So  I  swear  to  the  rose, 

*  Forever  and  ever  mine.'  " 


Pleasant  first  words  to  greet  Lord  Dynely's  ears,  pleasant 
tableau  vivant  to  greet  his  eyes. 

Confound  the  fellow !  A  strolling  artist,  too.  What 
presumption  !  Good  looking,  no  doubt ;  those  painting  fel 
lows,  with  their  long  hair,  and  picturesque  faces,  and  velvet 
blouses,  always  play  the  mischief  with  women.  Reading 
poetry,  at  her  feet.  France  Forrester's — whom  he  used 
to  think  one  of  the  proudest  girls  he  knew.  He  had 
fancied  her  pining  for  him,  piqued  at  his  absence.  Certainly, 
flirtation  was  a  game  for  two  to  play  at.  She  could  amuse 
herself  very  well  at  home,  it  seemed,  while  he  amused  him 
self  abroad. 

"  Taking  people  by  surprise  is  a  mistake,  I  find,"  he  said; 
advancing.  "If  I  don't  disturb  the  exercises,  Miss  Forres 
ter,  perhaps  you  will  turn  round  and  say  good-evening." 

He  stood  before  her,  holding  out  his  hand,  a  smile  on 
his  lips.  She  half  arose,  turning  very  pale. 

"  Eric ! " 

"  Eric,  Miss  Forrester — at  last.  I  have  been  standing  for 
the  last  five  minutes  enjoying  the  poetry  and  the  very  pretty 
picture  you  two  make  here  in  the  twilight.  Pray  present 
me." 

"There  is  no  need,  Miss  Forrester.  Unless  Lord 
Dynely's  memory  be  of  the  shortest,  think  I  he  will  recall 
me." 

Locksley  arose  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke,  and  Lord  Dynely 
saw  him  for  the  first  time.  His  face  lit  up — a  look  of  real 
pleasure  came  into  his  eyes — he  grasped  the  hand  of  the  ar 
tist  with  a  genuine  warmth,  all  unusual  with  him. 

"Locksley?  My  dear  fellow,  what  a  surprise  this  is,  you 
know.  My  mother  mentioned  your  name,  but  it  never  oc 
curred  to  me  you  were  the  man.  Who  would  look  for  you 
in  England?" 

Locksley  smiled. 


"  THE  LORD    OF   THE  LAND" 

11  My  headquarters  is  Italy,  certainly ;  but  I  come  to 
England,  nevertheless.  I  have  been  here  two  years." 

"  You  have  met  before,"  France  broke  in  ;  "you  never  told 
me,  Mr.  Locksley." 

"  Was  it  necessary  ?  I  had  the  pleasure  of  doing  Lord 
Dynely  some  slight  service  two  years  ago,  and  saw  a  good 
deal  of  him  for  some  weeks  after.  But  how  could  I  tell  he 
would  remember  ?  Two  years  is  a  considerable  time." 

"  Cynical,  as  usual — a  Diogenes  without  the  tub  and  cab 
bage  leaves.  A  slight  service !  Yes,  I  should  think  so. 
He  saved  my  life,  France — my  boat  upset  in  a  squall  in  the 
Bay  of  Naples,  and  only  he  took  a  header  gallantly  to  the 
rescue,  the  Dynely  succession  would  then  and  there  have 
been  extinct.  Odd  I  didn't  remember  your  name  the  mo 
ment  I  heard  it,  but  I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  you  here  all 
the  same." 

They  had  turned,  and  as  by  one  impulse,  walked  back  to 
wards  the  house.  It  was  quite  night  now,  the  trees  making 
ebony  shadows  across  the  ivory  light.  The  croquet  players 
had  adjourned  to  the  house,  and  the  balls  and  mallets  had 
given  place  to  piano  music  and  waltzing.  On  the  portico 
steps  stood  Terry,  whistling  and  looking  at  the  moon.  He 
came  eagerly  forward  with  outstretched  hand,  his  honest  eyes 
shining  with  pleasure. 

"  Dear  old  man !  "  he  said,  giving  Eric's  delicate  digit  a 
grip  that  made  him  wince;  "glad  to  have  you  back. 
Thought  you  were  never  coming — thought  some  old  Spanish 
hidalgo  out  there  had  got  jealous,  and  pinked  you  under  the 
fifth  i  ib  in  some  dark  corner.  The  madre  is  beside  herself 
with  delight." 

"  Softly,  Terry — softly,"  says  Lord  Dynely,  withdrawing  his 
hand  with  a  slight  grimace.  "  A  moderate  amount  of  affec 
tion  I  don't  object  to,  but  don't  let  the  grip  of  the  muscular 
hand  express  the  emotions  of  the  overflowing  heart.  They 
are  tripping  the  light  fantastic  in  there  —  shall  we  join 
them?" 

They  enter  the  drawing-room — there  are  more  greetings 
aad  a  few  introductions.  The  lord  of  the  land  has  returned 
—the  seigneur  of  Dynely,  the  master,  is  in  the  house,  and 


138  "THE  LORD   OF   THE  LAND." 

his  presence  makes  itself  felt  directly.  He  is  in  excellent 
spirits — throws  off  his  languor,  forgets  to  be  blase,  and 
waltzes  like  a  student  at  Mabille. 

France  declines ;  it  is  too  warm,  she  says  ;  she  will  re 
lieve  Lady  Dynely,  and  play.  Mr.  Locksley  makes  his 
adieux  speedily  and  departs. 

"  How  have  you  come  to  pick  up  Locksley,  France  ?  " 
Eric  asks,  later  on. 

"Pick  him  up?  I  don't  quite  understand.  He  painted 
the  picture  of  the  year,  sold  it  for  a  fabulous  sum,  was  over 
flowing  with  orders,  and,  as  a  special  favor  to  Lady  Dynely, 
consented  to  throw  over  everything  else,  follow  us  down 
here  and  paint  my  portrait." 

She  speaks  with  a  certain  air  of  constraint,  which  Lord 
Dynely  does  not  fail  to  notice. 

"Ah,  very  kind  of  him,  of  course.  Very  fine  fellow, 
Locksley,  and  very  clever  artist,  but  a  sort  of  reserve  about 
him,  a  sort  of  mystery,  something  on  his  mind  and  all  that. 
One  of  the  sort  of  men  who  have  an  obnoxious  wife  hidden 
away  in  some  quarter  of  the  globe,  like  Warrington  and 
Rochester  in  the  novels.  I  must  see  the  portrait— is  it  a 
good  one  ?  " 

"  Very  good,  I  believe — I  have  given  but  two  or  three 
sittings  as  yet." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  here  ?" 

"  A  fortnight." 

A  pause.  He  looks  at  her  as  he  leans  over  the  back  of 
her  chair.  She  is  slightly  pale  still,  rather  grave,  but  very 
handsome — very  handsome.  She  has  improved,  Eric  thinks, 
complacently,  and  dark  beauties  are  his  style,  naturally.  A 
very  credible  wife,  he  thinks  ;  a  fine,  high-bred  face  to  see  at 
one's  table  ;  and  if  there  be  a  trifle  more  brains  than  one 
could  wish,  one  can  excuse  that  in  a  wife. 

"I  must  get  Locksley  to  make  me  a  duplicate,"  he  says, 
bending  over  her,  and  putting  on  his  tender  look.  "  France, 
you  have  not  said  you  are  glad  to  see  me  yet." 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  repeat  that  formula  ?  "  she  answers, 
carelessly.  "That  is  taken  for  granted,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  I  was  detained  at  Saint  Jean,"  he  goes  on.     "  I  have 


"THE  LORD   OF    THE  LAND" 


139 


been  longing  to  see  you  once  more  ;  how  greatly,  you  can 
imagine." 

"  Yes,  I  can  imagine,"  France  answers,  and  suddenly  all 
her  reserve  gives  way,  and  she  looks  up  and  laughs  in  his 
face.  "  I  can  imagine  the  burning  impetuosity,  the  fever  of 
longing  with  which  you  rushed  across  the  Pyrenees,  across 
France,  and  home.  Eric,  that  sort  of  thing  may  do  very 
well  in  Spain,  but  don't  try  it  with  me." 

"  Merciless  as  ever.  Your  London  season  has  agreed  with 
you,  France.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well.  And  the  fame 
of  your  conquests  have  reached  even  the  other  side  of  the 
Pyrenees.  How  others  slew  their  thousands  and  Miss  For 
rester  her  tens  of  thousands.  How  men  went  down  before 
her  dark-eyed  glances  like  corn  before  the  reaper." 

"  My  dear  Eric,"  Miss  Forrester  replies,  politely  shrug 
ging  with  a  yawn,  "  don't  you  find  it  fatiguing  to  talk  so 
much  ?  It  was  never  a  failing  of  yours  to  make  long 
speeches.  But  I  suppose  two  years'  hard  practice  of  the 
language  of  compliments  must  tell." 

"  Come  out  on  the  terrace,"  is  what  he  says,  and  in  spite 
of  her  faint  resistance  he  leads  her  there.  He  is  growing 
more  and  more  charmed  every  moment — not  deeply  in  love, 
just  epris  of  this  new  and  pretty  face.  He  is  as  much  fasci 
nated  now  as  he  was  by  madame  last  week,  as  he  may  be  by 
any  one  else  you  please  next,  and  thoroughly  in  earnest  at 
the  moment.  Why  should  he  delay  ?  Why  not  come  to  the 
point  at  once?  Really,  France  would  do  credit  to  any 
man  in  England. 

The  moonlight  is  flooding  the  terrace  with  glory,  the  trees 
are  silver  in  its  light,  the  stone  urns  gleam  like  pearls,  the 
flowers  waft  their  fragrance  where  they  stand. 

"  Oh  !  "  France  sighs,  "  what  a  perfect  night !  " 

"Yes,"  Eric  assents,  looking  up  with  his  poetic  blue  eyes 
to  the  sky  ;  "  very  neat  thing  in  the  way  of  moonshine.  And 
moonlight  hours  were  made  for  love  and  all  that ;  the  poet 
says  so,  doesn't  he,  France  ?" 

"  The  poet,  which  poet  ?  Don't  be  so  vague,  Lord 
Dynely." 

<;  Ah,  France,  you  may  laugh  at  me — " 


I4O  "  THE  LORD   OF    THE  LAND." 

"  I  am  not  laughing ;  I  never  felt  less  facetious  in  my  life. 
My  principal  feeling,  at  present,  is  that  it  is  half-past  eleven, 
that  I  am  tired  after  two  hours'  croquet,  and  that  I  should— 
and  will  say  good-night,  and  go  to  bed." 

"Not  just  yet."  He  takes  her  hand  and  holds  it  fast. 
"  What  a  pretty  hand  you  have,"  he  says,  tenderly ;  "  a 
model  for  a  sculptor.  Will  you  let  me  put  an  engagement 
ring  among  all  those  rubies  and  diamonds,  France  ?  I 
wanted  to  once  before — in  Rome,  you  remember,  and  you 
wouldn't  allow  me." 

France  laughs,  and  looks  at  him,  and  draws  away  her 
hand. 

'*  There  came  a  laddie  here  to  woo, 

And,  dear,  but  he  was  jimp  and  gay ; 
He  stole  the  lassie's  heart  away, 
And  made  it  all  his  ain,  Oh." 

"You  certainly  lose  no  time,  Lord  Dynely.  Really  the 
haste  and  ardor  of  your  love-making  takes  one's  breath  away. 
I  have  more  rings  now  than  I  know  what  to  do  with — another 
would  be  the  embarrassment  of  riches.  Eric,  let  us  end  this 
farce.  You  don't  care  a  straw  for  me.  You  don't  want  to 
marry  me  any  more  than  I  want  to  marry  you.  Why  should 
we  hore  each  other  with  love-making  that  means  nothing.  It 
will  disappoint  two  good  women  a  little — but  that  is  inevi 
table.  Go  to  your  mother,  like  a  good  boy,  and  tell  her  she 
must  make  up  her  mind  to  another  daughter-in-law." 

His  eyes  light — opposition  always  determines  him  for  right 
or  wrong. 

"  I  will  never  tell  her  that.  I  love  you,  France — have 
loved  you  always — you  alone  shall  be  my  wife." 

"  Eric,  do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  ?  " 

"  I  expect  you  to  believe  the  truth.  And  if  after  all 
these  years — after  what  has  passed  between  us,  you  mean 
to  throw  me  over — " 

"  After  what  has  passed  between  us  !  "  she  repeats,  look 
ing  at  him  full,  "I  don't  understand  that,  Eric.  What  has 
ever  passed  between  us?" 

"  You  know  I  have  loved  you — you  did  not  quite  cast 


"THE  LORD   OF   THE  LAND."  \^\ 

me  off — you  know  it  has  always  been  an  understood  thing 
we  were  to  marry." 

"  And  you  mean  to  hold  me  to  such  a  compact  as  that?" 

"  I  mean  I  love  you,  and  will  be  most  miserable  if  you 
do  not  become  my  wife." 

"  Ungenerous,"  she  says,  under  her  breath.  "  You  will 
hold  me  to  this  tacit  understanding — to  which  I  have  never 
been  a  party,  mind — whether  I  will  or  no  ?" 

He  only  repeats  : 

"  I  love  you,  France.     I  want  you  for  my  wife." 

She  stands  looking  at  the  softly  luminous  night,  at  the 
dark  trees  and  white  shadows,  her  face  pale,  her  lips  set, 
her  eyes  darkly  troubled. 

"It  is  unfair — it  is  ungenerous,"  she  cries  out,  presently, 
"  to  hold  me  to  a  compact  to  which  I  have  never  consented. 
I  will  not  do  anything  dishonorable,  but,  Eric,  it  is  most 
unkind.  You  do  not  love  me — ah,  hush — if  you  protested 
forever  I  would  not  believe  you.  I  know  you,  I  think, 
better  than  you  know  yourself.  You  mean  it  at  this  mo 
ment — next  week  you  may  forget  my  very  existence.  I  am 
not  the  sort  of  wife  for  you — you  want  an  adoring  creature 
to  sit  at  your  feet  and  worship  you  as  a  god.  There  !  "  she 
turns  impatiently  away ;  "  let  me  alone.  I  can  give  you 
no  answer  to-night.  The  dew  is  falling  ;  let  us  go  in.  I  hate 
to  grieve  Mrs.  Caryll,  I  hate  to  disappoint  your  mother — for 
your  disappointment,  if  any  there  be,  I  don't  care  a  whit." 

"  France,  you  are  heartless,"  he  says,  angrily. 

"  No — I  only  speak  the  truth.  Give  me  up.  Let  me  go, 
Eric — it  will  be  better  for  us  both." 

"  I  will  never  let  you  go,"  he  answers,  sullenly.  "  If  you 
throw  me  over,  well  and  good — I  must  submit — only  it  will  not 
be  like  France  Forrester  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  any  man." 

Her  eyes  flash  upon  him  in  the  moonlight  their  angry  fire. 

"  You  do  well  to  say  that,"  she  retorts.  "  You  of  all 
men  !  Give  me  a  week  ;  I  cannot  answer  to-night.  If  at 
the  end  of  that  time  you  are  still  of  the  same  mind,  come 
to  me  for  your  answer." 

She  passes  him,  returns  to  the  drawing-room,  and  leavei 
him  on  th/>  terrace  alone. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
A  WEEK'S  REPRIEVE. 

jISS  FORRESTER  goes  to  her  room  and  sits  at  the 
window,  after  the  fashion  of  girls,  and  looks  out. 
She  had  never  taken  this  affair  of  the  proposed 
alliance  seriously  for  a  moment  before.  She  had 
said,'  and  with  truth,  that  she  understood  Eric  better  than  he 
understood  himself.  Somewhere  in  his  wanderings  he  felt 
he  would  come  upon  some  gypsy,  girlish  face,  that  would 
captivate  his  susceptible,  romantic  heart — no,  not  heart — 
fancy ;  and  very  probably  there  might  be  an  impromptu 
marriage,  and  an  end  of  all  worry  for  her.  He  was  just  the 
sort  of  man  to  sneer  at  matrimony,  because  it  was  a  cynical, 
worldly,  correct  sort  of  thing  to  do,  and  rush  headlong  into 
it  upon  the  slightest  provocation.  To  be  "  off  with  the  old 
love  and  on  with  the  new,"  at  a  moment's  notice,  was  my 
Lord  Eric's  forte. 

She  had  not  disliked  Eric,  she  had  rather  liked  him,  indeed 
— laughed  at  his  love-making,  parodied  his  pretty  speeches, 
mimicked  his  languid  drawl,  and  weary,  used-up  manner; 
treated  him  much  as  she  treated  Terry,  with  a  sort  of  fun- 
loving,  elder-sister  manner ;  only  she  had  a  real  respect  for 
Dennison  she  never  felt  for  Dynely. 

"  I  never  could  marry  such  a  man  as  you,  Eric,"  she  was 
wont  to  say.  "You  have  a  great  deal  fairer  complexion 
than  I  have,  and  I  don't  like  dolly  men.  You  curl  your 
hair ;  you  wax  that  little  callow  mustache  of  yours ;  you 
perfume  yourself  like  a  valet;  you  think  more  about  your 
toilet  and  spend  longer  over  it  than  a  young  duchess;  and 
you  haven't  an  ounce  of  brains  in  you  from  top  to  toe. 
Now  if  I  have  a  weakness,  it  is  this — that  the  man  I  marry 
shall  be  a  manly  man  and  a  clever  man.  You,  my  poor 


A    WEEK'S  REPRIEVE. 


143 


Eric,  are  neither,  and  never  will  be.  And  besides  you're 
too  good-looking." 

"  First  time  a  lady  ever  objected  to  that  in  the  man  who 
adored  her,"  Eric  drawled. 

"  You're  too  good-looking,"  Miss  Forrester  repeats  with 
a  regretful  sigh  ;  "and  over-much  good  looks  are  what  no 
man  can  bear.  You're  a  coxcomb,  my  precious  boy,  of  the 
first  water — a  dandy  par  excellence.  Why,  you  know  your 
self,"  cries  France,  indignantly,  "  your  sobriquet  at  Eton  was 
'  Pretty  Face  ? '  " 

"  I  know  it — yes,"  Eric  answers,  with  an  irrepressible 
smile. 

"  Then  you  see  it's  quite  impossible — utterly  impossible 
and  preposterous,  Eric,"  Miss  Forrester  was  wont  to  con 
clude ;  "so  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  I  don't  object  to 
your  making  love  to  me  in  a  general  way — it's  your  only 
earthly  mission,  poor  fellow,  and  to  veto  that  would  be  cruel. 
But  let  it  be  general — let  us  have  no  more  foolish  talk  of 
present  engagements  and  prospective  weddings,  and  that 
nonsense.  Because  you  know  it  can  never  be." 

"  Never,  France — really  ?  " 

"Never,  Eric — really;  never,  never,  never.  I  wouldn't 
marry  you  if  you  were  the  last  man  on  earth,  and  to  refuse 
involved  the  awful  doom  of  old-maidenhood.  I  like  you  too 
well  ever  to  love  you.  And  I  mean  to  love  the  man  I  marry." 

"  Really  !  "  Eric  repeats,  lifting  his  eyebrows,  and  pulling 
the  waxed  ends  of  the  yellow  mustache,  intensely  amused. 

"  Yes,  Eric,  with  all  my  heart.  Ah,  you  may  smile  in  the 
superior  god-like  wisdom  of  manhood,  but  I  mean  it.  He 
is  to  be  a  king  among  men — " 

"  Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche  ? "  puts  in  young  Lord 
Dynely. 

"  Without  fear  and  without  reproach.  Yes,  exactly.  Not 
a  man  about  town,  mind  you  ;  an  elegant  tailor's  block,  too 
much  in  love  with  himself  ever  to  love  his  wife  ;  but  a 
strong  man,  a  brave  man,  a  hero — " 

" '  I'm  Captain  Jinks,  of  the  Horse  Marines,' "  hums 
Lord  Dynely,  that  popular  ditty  having  about  that  time 
burst  uyon  an  enraptured  world. 


144  A    WEEK'S  REPRIEVE. 

"  A  man  I  can  look  up  to,  be  proud  of,  who  will  do  some 
thing  in  the  world ;  anything  but  a  handsome  dandy  who 
parts  his  hair  in  the  middle,  who  wears  purple  and  fine  linen, 
and  whose  highest  aim  in  life  is  to  lie  at  young  ladies'  feet 
and  drawl  out  the  eternal  passion  that  consumes  him — a 
gentleman  whose  loves  are  as  numerous  as  the  stars,  and  not 
half  so  eternal." 

In  this  spirited  way  Miss  Forrester  had  been  used  to 
rebuff  her  would-be  lover,  and  did  sometimes  succeed  in 
piquing  Eric  into  deserting  her  in  disgust. 

A  young  lady  so  strong-minded  as  this  at  sixteen,  what 
was  she  likely  to  be  at  twenty  ?  He  pitied  her  for  her  lack  of 
taste — other  girls  went  down  before  those  blue  eyes  of  his, 
for  which  Miss  Forrester  expressed  such  profound  contempt. 
It  had  never  really  meant  much  with  either  of  them  until 
this  night  on  the  terrace.  And  this  night  on  the  terrace 
Lord  Dynely  had  been  in  earnest  at  last. 

In  some  way  her  honor  was  bound — more  or  less,  while  she 
had  laughed  at  the  wished-for  alliance,  she  had  yet  accepted  it. 
Miss  Forrester  had  a  very  high  sense  of  honor,  and  was  an  ex 
ceedingly  proud  girl.  To  play  fast  or  loose  with  any  man,  as 
Eric  had  said,  was  utterly  impossible.  In  no  way  was  she  a 
coquette.  Men  had  admired  her,  had  fallen  in  love  with  her, 
had  wanted  to  marry  her  ;  but  the  mistake  had  been  of  their 
own  making ;  she  had  never  led  them  on.  If,  indeed,  then, 
her  honor  and  truth  stood  compromised  here,  she  must 
marry  Eric.  He  did  not  love  her — that  she  knew  as  well 
now  as  she  had  known  it  always  ;  if  she  married  him,  she 
would  be  a  most  unhappy,  unloved  and  neglected  wife — 
that  she  also  knew.  And  yet  if  he  held  her  to  it,  if  Lady 
Dynely  held  her  to  it,  if  Mrs.  Caryll  held  her  to  it,  what 
was  she  to  do  ?  To  grieve  those  that  loved  her  was  a  trial 
to  her  generous  nature,  and  she  was  of  the  age  and  the  kind 
to  whom  self-sacrifice,  self-abnegation,  look  great  and  glo 
rious  things.  Yes,  it  would  resolve  itself  into  this — if  Lord 
Dynely  held  her  to  their  compact,  she  must  marry  Lord 
Dynely. 

And  then  out  of  the  mist  of  the  moonlight,  the  face  of 
Locksley  arose,  the  grave,  reproachful  eyes,  the  broad. 


A    WEEK'S  REPRIEVE. 

thoughtful  brow,  the  firm,  resolute  lips,  hid  behind  that 
gold,  bronze  beard,  France  thought  the  most  beautiful  on 
earth.  She  covered  her  face  with  both  hands  as  if  to  shut 
it  out. 

"I  cannot!  I  cannot!"  she  said.  "I  cannot  marry 
Eric.  It  is  most  selfish,  most  ungenerous,  most  cruel  to 
hold  me  to  a  promise  I  never  gave." 

Then  there  came  before  her  a  vision — a  vision  of  what 
her  life  might  be  as  Locksley's  wife.  With  her  fortune 
and  his  genius,  loving  and  beloved,  what  a  beautiful  and 
perfect  life  would  lie  before  her. 

Suddenly  the  carelessly  spoken  words  of  Eric  came 
back  to  her : 

"One  of  these  mysterious  men  who  have  an  obnoxious 
wife  hidden  away  in  some  quarter  of  the  globe."  She 
turned  cold  at  the  thought.  Was  there  anything  in  it — 
anything  beyond  a  jealous  man's  malicious  innuendo  ? 
There  was  that  strange  picture,  "  How  The  Night  P'ell " 
• — his  own  strange  remarks  concerning  it.  Who  was  to 
tell  what  lay  in  the  life  behind  him  ?  Somehow,  he 
looked  like  a  man  who  had  a  secret,  who  had  lived  every 
day  of  his  life,  and  that  life  no  common  one.  She  sighed  ; 
her  train  of  thought  broke  ;  she  got  up  abruptly,  closed 
the  window,  and  went  to  bed. 

She  was  looking  pale  next  morning  when  she  de 
scended  to  breakfast,  in  spite  of  the  rose-pink  cashmere 
she  wore  ;  a  shade  too  pale,  fastidious,  Eric  thought,  but 
very  handsome,  with  the  ease  of  high-bred  grace  in  every 
word  and  act ;  a  wife,  he  repeated  again,  who  would  do 
honor  to  any  man  in  England.  How  well  she  would  look 
at  St.  George's  in  bridal  veil  and  blossoms,  white  satin 
and  Honiton  lace,  and  how  all  the  men  he  knew  would 
envy  him.  In  his  love-making,  as  in  every  pursuit  of  life, 
self  was  ever  uppermost  with  Lord  Dynely. 

"  Is  this  one  of  the  Locksley's  painting  days  ?  "  he  asked 
after  breakfast;  "because  I  want  to  see  the  picture.  Does 
he  come  here  or  do  you  go  there  ?  Does  Mahomet  come  to 
the  mountain,  or  does  the  mountain,  etc.  ?  I  must  have  that 
duplicate  I  spoke  of,  France.  To  possess  the  original 
7 


146  A    WEEK^S  REPRIEVE. 

will  not  content  me ;  I  must  have  the  counterfeit  present 
ment  also." 

This  in  a  tender  whisper  and  a  look  from  under  the  long, 
blonde  eyelashes  that  had  done  killing  execution  in  its  time. 
It  missed  fire,  however,  so  far  as  France  was  concerned. 

"  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Locksley  will  take  time  to  paint  dupli 
cates,  Eric.  Men  who  make  their  mark,  as  he  has  done, 
do  not  generally  devote  themselves  to  portrait  painting. 
Here  he  comes  now." 

Her  color  rose  as  she  said  it — her  pale  cheeks  took  a  tint 
rivalling  her  dress.  Lord  Dynely  saw  it  and  frowned. 
Mentally,  that  is  ;  so  ugly  a  thing  as  a  frown  seldom  marred 
the  smooth  fairness  of  that  low  brow. 

"Capital  fellow,  Locksley,"  he  said,  carelessly.  "Saw  a 
great  deal  of  him  at  one  time  in  Naples.  Can  tell  a  good 
story,  and  knock  off  a  neat  after-dinner  speech  better  than 
any  man  I  know.  The  set  he  lived  among — painting  fellows 
all — used  to  drop  hints,  though,  about  that  discarded  wife. 
There  is  one  somewhere,  depend  upon  it,  and  Locksley 
didn't  act  over  and  above  well  in  the  business,  it  was  under 
stood." 

France  turned  upon  him,  herself  again,  a  look  of  cool 
contempt  in  her  eyes. 

"Eric,  don't  be  ill-natured.  I  hate  womanish  men,  and 
there's  nothing  on  earth  so  womanish  as  to  slander  absent 
friends.  We  do  that ;  but  let  us  retain  the  copyright." 

And  then  she  turns  away  and  goes  over  to  Mr.  Locksley, 
looking  proud  and  lovely,  and  holds  out  her  hand  in  cordial 
welcome. 

"  One  may  have  a  look  at  the  portrait,  I  suppose,  Locks- 
ley  ?  "  Eric  suggests,  unabashed. 

Mr.  Locksley  assents ;  and  they  adjourn  to  the  painting- 
room — Terry,  who  drops  in,  following  in  their  wake.  It  is 
in  an  unfinished  state  as  yet,  lacking  in  all  details,  but  it  is 
a  beautiful  and  striking  picture. 

From  a  cloud  of  misty  drapery  the  face  looks  vividly  out, 
the  lips  gravely  smiling,  the  serene  eyes  earnest  and 
luminous  to  their  very  depths,  an  etherealized  expression 
intensifying  its  beauty.  He  has  idealized  it  unconsciously 


A    WEE1CS  REPRIEVE. 

— a  handsome  girl  has  sat  {o  him — he  has  painted  a  divin 
ity. 

'  France  stands  and  looks,  and  her  face  flushes.  Ah  !  she 
has  never  worn  that  look.  She  knows  she  is  of  the 
earth,  earthy — very  little  of  the  angel  about  her,  after  all. 
And  he  has  painted  more  an  angel  than  a  woman. 

"  He'm,"  says  Eric,  with  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  critically, 
"  very  good — very  pretty,  indeed.  Paint  a  halo  round  her 
and  call  it  St.  Teresa,  or  St.  Cecelia  at  once — it  looks  like 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  It's  a  pretty  picture,  but  it 
isn't  you,  France  ;  that  is  not  your  natural  expression." 

"  No,"  France  says,  under  her  breath.  "  I  am  sorry  to 
say  it  is  not." 

"  And  I  prefer  your  natural  expression,"  goes  on  Eric. 
"  It  is  very  well  done,  as  I  said  before,  but  it  doesn't  do  you 
justice." 

"And  I  think  it  is  grossly  flattered,"  puts  in  Terry, 
gruffly. 

France  bestows  upon  him  a  look  of  absolute  gratitude. 

"  Flattered  !  I  should  think  so,  Terry.  That  face  Mr. 
Locksley  has  painted  out  of  his  inner  consciousness,  and  is 
what  France  Forrester  should  be — what,  I  regret  to  add,  she 
is  not." 

Mr.  Locksley  takes  no  part  in  the  discussion  ;  he  goes 
steadfastly  on  with  his  work.  Terry  yawns  loudly,  whistles 
in  an  aimless  way,  thrusts  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
stares  at  the  artist's  rapid  movements,  until  France,  whose 
nerves  he  sets  on  edge,  orders  him  peremptorily  to  leave  the 
room.  Eric  lingers,  lounging  in  a  deep  window,  looking 
unutterably  patrician  and  handsome  in  his  black  velvet 
morning  coat,  contrasting  so  perfectly  with  his  pearl-like 
complexion  and  fair  hair.  He  remains  all  through  the  sit 
ting,  he  follows  France  out  into  the  Italian  rose  garden 
when  it  is  over,  he  hangs  about  her  like  her  shadow  all  day, 
and  makes  tender  little  speeches  when  he  can.  At  dinner 
it  is  the  same — in  the  evening  it  is  worse.  He  is  really  and 
truly  in  earnest  for  the  time.  Whilst  he  was  sure  of  her  he 
was  indifferent — now  that  he  stands  a  chance  of  losing  her 
he  works  himself  into  a  fever  of  devotion.  She  is  in  love 


A    WEEK'S  REPRIEVE. 

with  Locksley,  Locksley  with  her — that  he  sees.  That  hit 
about  the  hidden  wife  has  stung.  The  green-eyed  monster 
blows  the  slight  fire  of  his  affection  into  ablaze.  He  will  win 
and  wear  Miss  Forrester,  or  know  the  reason  why.  France  en 
dures  it  as  long  as  she  can.  That  is  not  very  long.  At  no 
time  are  patience  and  meekness  her  most  notable  virtues ; 
as  Eric  bends  persistently  over  the  piano  for  an  hour  at  a 
stretch,  the  slight  thread  of  that  patience  gives  way  at  last. 

"  Eric,  do  give  me  a  moment's  peace,"  she  cries  out. 
"  Go  and  play  chess  with  your  mother ;  go  and  talk  to 
Terry  or  Mr.  Steeves ;  go  and  make  love  to  Miss  Hanford  ; 
go  and  smoke  a  cigar  in  the  dew ;  anything,  only  leave  me 
alone." 

He  starts  up,  his  pride  fairly  stung. 

"  As  you  please.  As  I  am  so  disagreeable  to  you,  sup 
pose  I  take  myself  away  from  the  Abbey  altogether." 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  she  answers  cordially,  "  for  this  week 
at  least.  You  irritate  me  beyond  measure  haunting  me  in 
this  way.  Leave  me  alone,  Eric,  if  you  really  care  for  my 
decision." 

"  If  I  really  care  !  "  he  reproachfully  repeats. 

"The  more  generous  you  are,  the  better  your  chances 
will  be.  When  the  week  is  up,  come  back  if  you  like,  for — • 
for  your  answer." 

"France!  and  if  that  answer  be  favorable.  If!  Good 
Heaven,  it  must  be,"  he  cries. 

"  Then  " — her  voice  trembles,  she  turns  her  face  away 
from  him  in  the  glow  of  the  waxlights — "  then  you  will 
never  more  hear  me  complain  of  your  attentions." 

He  lifts  her  hand  and  kisses  it. 

"  I  will  .go,"  he  says,  gently.  "  Forgive  me,  France,  but 
the  thought  of  losing  you  is  so — " 

"Don't,"  she  says,  in  a  voice  that  is  almost  one  of  pain. 
u  Where  will  you  go  ?  " 

"To  Lincolnshire — to  Sir  Philip  Carruthers'  place.  I 
have  had  a  standing  invitation  to  Carruthers'  Court  for  the 
past  two  years." 

"What's  that  about  Lincolnshire?"  Terry  asks,  appear 
ing.  "  I'm  off  there — are  you  on  the  wing  again,  Eric  ?  " 


A    WEEK'S  REPRIEVE. 

"  For  a  week,  yes — to  Carruthers*.  You're  a  Lincoln 
shire  man,  Terry— do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  Do  I  not  ?  It  is  three  miles  from  Starling  vicarage. 
Shall  be  glad  to  meet  you  there,  dear  old  boy.  Capital 
fishing,  best  trout  streams  anywhere,  prime  shooting  a  little 
later  on.  We  will — 

"  '  We  will  hunt  the  bear  and  bison,  we  will  shoot  the  wild  raccoon, 
We  will  worship  Mumbo  Jumbo  in  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  ! '  " 

spouts  France.  "  There  are  nine  pretty  Misses  Higgins — 
aren't  there,  Terry  ?  Don't  let  Eric  poach  on  your  manor — • 
it  is  in  his  line,  you  know." 

France  was  herself  again.  The  prospect  of  a  week  to 
quietly  think  the  matter  out  was  a  great  deal.  And  who 
knew  what  even  a  week  might  bring  forth  ? 

It  was  settled  that  they  should  go  together ;  Lady 
Dynely's  consent  had  been  won  at  last. 

"  But,  remember,"  she  said  at  parting,  looking  anxiously 
into  Terry's  eyes,  "you  are  to  return  in  a  week,  and  mean 
time  you  are  to  say  nothing  to  Miss  Higgins.  This  I  insist 
upon.  When  you  have  heard  what  I  have  to  say — " 

He  looked  at  her  in  anxious  wonder.  What  could  it  be, 
he  thought,  to  make  Lady  Dynely  wear  that  face  of  pale 
affright  ?  What  secret  was  here  ?  He  would  obey  her  in  all 
things  ;  she  hardly  needed  the  assurance,  and  yet  it  was 
with  a  darkly  troubled  face  she  stood  on  the  portico  steps 
and  watched  the  two  young  men  disappear. 

"  Thank  fortune,"  France  breathed  devoutly,  "  we  shall 
have  a  quiet  week.  Men  are  a  mistake  in  a  household,  I 
begin  to  find.  Like  yeast  in  small  beer,  they  turn  the 
peaceful  stream  of  woman's  life  into  seething  ferment." 

"  France,"  the  elder  lady  said,  taking  both  the  girl's  hands, 
and  looking  earnestly  down  into  her  eyes,  "  you  are  to  give 
Eric  his  answer  when  he  returns — I  know  that.  When  does 
he  return  ?  " 

"  In  a  week." 

"  And  the  answer  will  be — " 

"  Lady  Dynely,  you  have  no  right  to  ask  that.     When  the 


150  A    WEEK'S  REPRIEVE. 

week  ends,  and  Eric  returns  to  claim  it,  the  answer  shall  be 
given  to  him" 

She  dropped  the  hands  and  turned  away  with  a  heavy 
sigh. 

"  I  will  do  my  duty,  I  hope — I  pray,"  France  went  on, 
quietly.  "  If  Eric's  happiness  were  involved — if,  indeed,  he 
loved  me,  after  the  tacit  consent  I  have  given  all  these 
years — I  would  not  hesitate  one  moment,  at  any  sacrifice  to 
myself.  But  he  does  not  love  me — he  is  incapable  of  lov 
ing  any  one  but  himself.  Oh,  yes !  Lady  Dynely,  even 
you  must  hear  the  truth  sometimes  about  Eric.  As  a 
brother,  I  could  like  him  well  enough — be  proud  of  his  good 
looks,  his  graceful  manner,  as  you  are  ;  as  a  husband,  if  he 
is  ever  that,  I  shall  detest  him." 

"  France  ! " 

"  I  shock,  I  anger  you,  do  I  not  ?  It  is  true,  though, 
and  he  will  tire  of  me  before  the  honeymoon  is  over.  If  we 
marry,  it  will  be  a  fatal  mistake ;  and  yet,  if  you  all  hold  me 
to  this  compact,  what  is  left  me  but  to  yield?" 

"You  are  a  romantic  girl,  France;  you  want  a  hero — a 
Chevalier  Bayard — a  Sir  Launcelot.  Dear  child,  there  are 
none  left.  Like  the  fairies,  they  sailed  away  from  England 
years  ago — went  out  of  fashion  with  tilt  and  tournament. 
You  will  marry  Eric,  I  foresee,  and  make  a  man  of  him. 
He  will  go  into  parliament,  make  speeches,  and  be  a  most 
devoted  husband  to  the  fairest  and  happiest  wife  in  England. 
Oh,  France,  take  my  boy  !  I  love  you  so  well  that  I  will 
break  my  heart  if  this  marriage  does  not  take  place." 

"  And  I  will  break  mine  if  it  does,"  France  answers,  with 
a  curious  little  laugh.  "  Let  us  not  talk  of  it  any  more,  ma 
mere.  We  are  due  at  De  Vere's,  are  we  not?  We  have  a 
week's  grace,  and  much  may  happen  in  a  week.  I  have  the 
strongest  /nternal  conviction  that  I  will  never  be  Lady 
Dynely." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"  WHO    IS    SHE  ?  " 

jCENE,  an  old-fashioned  country  garden  of  an  old- 
fashioned  country  house  ;  time,  the  mellow,  amber 
hour  before  sunset ;  dramatis  personse,  a  young 
man  and  a  young  girl ;  names  of  dramatis  persons, 

Mr.  Terence  Dennison,  of  Her  Majesty's th  Dragoons, 

and  Miss  Christabel  Higgins,  eighth  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
William  Higs;ins,  Vicar  of  Starling,  and  beauty  of  the  fam- 
ily. 

A  beauty  ?  Well,  as  Tony  Lumpkin  says,  "  That's  as 
may  be."  If  you  liked  a  complexion  of  milk-white  and  rose- 
pink,  the  eighth  Miss  Higgins  had  it  ;  if  you  liked  big, 
childish,  surprised-looking,  turquoise  blue  eyes,  there  they 
were  for  you  ;  if  you  liked  a  dear  little,  dimpled,  rosy  mouth, 
there  it  was  also  ;  if  you  liked  a  low,  characterless  forehead, 
a  round,  characterless  chin,  and  a  feathery  aureole  of  palest 
blonde  hair,  the  eighth  Miss  Higgins  rejoiced  in  all  these 
pretty  and  pleasant  gifts.  If  you  fancied  a  waist  you  might 
span,  a  shape,  small,  slim,  fragile  as  a  lily-stalk,  little  Crystal 
would  have  been  your  ideal,  certainly.  Pretty?  Yes,  with 
a  tender,  dove-like,  inane  sort  of  prettiness,  that  does  its 
work  with  a  certain  sort  of  men.  Mind,  she  had  none  ; 
depth,  she  had  none ;  knowledge  of  this  big,  wicked  world, 
she  had  none  ;  in  short,  she  was  man's  ideal  of  perfect 
womanhood,  infringing  on  no  claim  whatever  of  the  lordly 
sex.  And  Terry  Dennison  was  her  abject  slave  and 
adorer. 

She  was  seventeen  this  sunny  August  afternoon.  It 
seemed  to  Terry  he  had  idolized  her — idolized  was  the  way 
Mr.  Dennison  thought  it — ever  since  she  had  been  seven. 
She  knew  she  was  pretty — dove-like  innocence  to  the  con- 


TC2  "WHO  IS  SHE?" 

trary — and  rejoiced  in  that  prettiness  as  thoroughly  as  any 
embryo  coquette.  Had  she  not  been  caressed,  and  kissed, 
and  praised  for  those  blue  eyes  and  golden  tresses  ever 
since  the  days  of  bibs  and  tuckers?  Had  she  not  seen 
her  seven  elder  sisters  snubbed  and  passed  over,  and  the 
cakes  and  the  sugar-plums  always  presented  to  her  Pit  would 
be  so  forever,  Crystal  thought.  In  the  eternal  fitness  of 
things  it  had  been  ordered  so — the  seven  elder  Cinderellas 
worked  in  kitchen  and  chamber,  sewed,  baked,  and  mended  ; 
she,  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  toiled  not  nor  spun.  The 
cakes  and  sugar-plums  of  life  were  to  be  hers  always ;  they 
belonged  by  right  divine  to  pretty  people  with  pale  yellow 
hair  and  turquoise  eyes.  Let  the  snub-noses,  and  freckled 
complexions,  and  the  dry-as-dust  colored  hair  do  the  work. 
She  would  marry  Terry  Dennison  some  day,  and  be,  as 
Terry  was,  an  offshoot  of  the  aristocracy.  This  great  lady, 
who  was  Terry's  patroness  and  friend,  would  take  her  up, 
would  present  her  at  court,  would  invite  her  to  her  parties, 
and  the  world  of  her  dreams  would  become  the  world  of 
realities.  She  would  see  this  handsome  Lord  Eric  Dynely, 
of  whom  Terry  never  tired  talking — this  elegant  Miss  France 
Forrester,  who  was  to  marry  him.  And,  who  knew- — these 
beings  of  the  upper  world  might  condescend  even  to  admire 
her  in  turn. 

Miss  Crystal  Higgins,  strolling  with  her  Tennyson  or  her 
Owen  Meredith  in  her  hand  through  the  old  vicarage  gar 
den,  had  dreamed  her  dreams,  you  see.  That  was  the 
simple  little  life  she  had  mapped  out  for  herself.  She 
would  marry  Terry — that  was  settled.  Terry  had  never 
asked  her,  but,  ah  !  the  simplest  little  lassie  of  them  all  can 
read  mankind  like  a  book  when  they  have  that  complaint; 
Terry  was  in  love  with  her,  had  always  been  ;  she  knew  it 
just  as  well  as  Terry  himself.  And  she  liked  Terry  very 
well ;  she  wasn't  in  love  with  him  at  all,  but  still  she  was 
fonder  of  him  than  of  any  other  young  man  she  knew  ;  and 
he  was  a  dragoon,  and  that  threw  a  sort  of  halo  over  him. 
It  was  a  pity,  she  was  wont  to  sigh,  regretfully,  that  he  was 
so  homely  ;  even  being  a  dragoon  could  not  entirely  do 
away  w'th  the  fact  that  he  was  homely,  and  had  red  hair. 


"WHO  IS  SHE?"  is$ 

None  of  the  heroes  of  Miss  Higgins'  pet  novels  ever  had 
hair  of  that  obnoxious  hue.  Still  one  mustn't  expect  every 
thing  in  this  lower  world — papa  and  mamma  instilled  that 
into  her  sentimental  little  noddle — it  is  only  for  beings 
of  that  upper  world — like  Miss  Forrester,  for  instance, 
to  look  for  husbands  handsome  as  Greek  gods,  titled, 
wealthy.  Less-favored  mortals  must  take  the  goods  theii 
gods  provide,  and  be  thankful.  The  wife  of  a  dragoon,  with 
five  hundred  a  year,  looked  a  brilliant  vista  to  the  "beauty 
daughter  "  of  the  Vicar  of  Starling. 

And  now  the  question  resolved  itself.  Why  didn't  Terry 
speak  ?  He  had  written  of  his  good  fortune,  of  Lady 
Dynely's  boundless  kindness,  and  the  Reverend  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Higgins  congratulated  themselves  that  "Crissy's"  fortune 
was  insured.  Crissy  herself  simpered  and  cast  down  her 
blonde  eyelashes,  and  saw  with  secret  satisfaction,  the  sour 
and  envious  regards  of  the  seven  elder  Misses  Higgins,  who 
were  verging  helplessly  toward  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf. 
Then  Terry  wrote  of  his  speedy  visit.  "And  I  really  think, 
Christabel,  my  love,"  said  Mamma  Higgins,  "  we  might 
begin  making  up  the  outfit.  It  will  take  some  time,  and  of 
course  he  comes  down  with  but  one  intention,  that  of  pro 
posing  immediately."  And  a  few  things  were  commenced. 
The  first  week  of  August  came,  the  big  dragoon  with  it,  his 
frank  face  and  good-humored  eyes  fairly  luminous  with  de 
light  at  being  with  them  again.  Those  eager,  loving  eyes 
actually  devoured  Crystal ;  not  for  five  minutes  at  a  stretch 
could  they  leave  that  pretty  doll  face.  He  haunted  her 
everywhere,  as  a  big,  lumbering  Newfoundland  might  follow 
a  little  curled,  silky  King  Charles.  He  looked  love,  he 
hinted  love,  he  acted  love,  in  ten  thousand  different  ways, 
but  he  never  spoke  it.  He  blushed  if  she  suddenly  looked 
at  him,  stammered  if  she  suddenly  addressed  him,  touched 
the  little  lily-leaf  hand  she  gave  him  with  the  timidity  char 
acteristic  of  big,  warm-hearted  men,  very  far  gone  indeed  ;  but 
beyond  that  he  never  got.  "  Miss  Crystal  Higgins,  will 
you  marry  me  ? "  was  a  conundrum  he  never  propounded. 
And  Mamma  Higgins'  matronly  eyes  began  to  look  at  him 
wrathfully  over  her  spectacles,  the  seven  elder  Misses  Higgins 
7*  - 


154  "WHO  is  SHE?" 

to  cast  sisterly,  satirical  glances  after  the  beauty,  and  Crystal 
herself  to  open  those  innocent  turquoise  orbs  of  hers  to  their 
widest,  and  wonder  what  made  Terry  so  awfully  bashful. 
The  last  day  but  one  of  the  visit  had  come  and  Terry  had 
not  spoken. 

It  was  Crystal's  birthday,  and  there  was  to  be  a  little  fete; 
croquet  in  the  back  garden — the  family  bleaching-ground  on 
ordinary  occasions — a  tea-drinking  under  the  apple-trees 
afterward,  and  a  dance  by  moonlight. 

The  company  had  begun  to  gather ;  but  there  were 
Mamma  Higgins  and  the  seven  other  Misses  Higgins  to  re 
ceive  and  entertain  them,  so  Terry  drew  his  idol's  hand  in 
side  his  coat-sleeve,  and  led  her  away  for  a  little  last  ramble 
"  o'er  the  moor  among  the  heather." 

"  I  go  back  to-morrow,  and  I  cannot  tell  exactly  how 
long  Lady  Dynely  may  detain  me,  so  let  me  gather  my 
roses  while  they  bloom,"  said  Terry,  growing  poetical,  as 
many  young  gentlemen  do  when  in  love. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Terry,"  said  the  eighth  Miss  Higgins, 
rather  pettishly,  "you  are  a  sort  of  companion  for  Lady 
Dynely' s  lap-dog,  to  fetch  and  carry,  to  corne  and  go,  as  you 
are  told.  You  are  too  big,  I  should  think,  to  let  yourself 
be  treated  like  a  little  boy  all  your  life." 

It  was  not  often  Mile.  Crystal  made  so  determined  a  stand 
as  this,  or  uttered  so  spirited  a  speech.  But  mamma  had 
told  her  this  very  day  that  something  must  be  done ;  that  if 
she  couldn't  bring  Terry  to  the  point  herself,  papa  must  ask 
his  intentions.  A  little  firing  of  blank  cartridge  is  very  well, 
but  if  you  want  to  bring  down  your  bird,  you  must  use  real 
powder  and  shot. 

Terry's  face  flushed.  He  understood  the  reproof,  and 
felt  he  deserved  it.  Love  may  be  blind,  but  not  quite  stone 
blind  ;  he  saw  well  enough  what  was  expected  of  him  by 
the  vicar's  family,  by  the  little  beauty  herself,  and  knew  he 
was  exciting  anger  and  blame  for  not  doing  what  he  was 
dying  to  do.  He  deserved  this  reproof,  and  reddened 
guiltily.  What  if  Crystal  knew  it  was  by  Lady  Dynely's 
command  he  did  not  dare  speak,  how  she  would  despise  him  ? 
And  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  it  was 


"  WHO  IS  SHE?"  155 

rather  unkind  of  chat  best  of  women  to  have  bound  him  to 
this  promise. 

"  I  should  never  have  come  down  here  at  all  until  I  was 
free  to  say  all  that  is  in  my  heart,"  he  thought.  "  Oh.  my 
darling  !  before  the  sun  sinks  out  of  sight  yonder,  you 
would  know  life  holds  no  thought  half  so  sweet  as  the 
thought  of  making  you  my  wife." 

She  was  looking  very  lovely  in  this  roseate  evening  light — 
but  Terry  thought  when  did  she  not  look  lovely  ?  She  wore 
flowing  white  muslin — she  was  that  sort  of  ethereal  creature 
who  seemed  born  to  wear  white  muslin.  She  had  a 
bunch  of  roses  in  her  breast,  roses  in  her  sash,  roses  in 
her  hand,  and  a  heart-breakingly  coquettish  "  Dolly  Var- 
den  "  on  her  head.  She  had  a  cascade  of  white  wax  beads 
around  her  long,  slim  throat,  and  knots  of  blue  ribbon 
streaming  from  her  golden  locks.  The  yellow  sunshine  fell 
full  upon  the  perfect  face  without  finding  a  flaw  in  it ;  the 
little  snowdrop  of  a  hand  rested  on  his  arm  ;  the  soft,  affec 
tionate,  reproachful  eyes  looked  up  at  him  waiting  in  pathetic 
appeal. 

"  You  know  I  like  you  ;  I  know  you  love  me  ;  then  why 
don't  you  say  so,  Terry,  and  please  mamma  and  me?  You 
have  only  to  ask  and  receive  ;  I  think  it  is  a  little  too  bad  of 
you  to  go  on  like  this."  That  was  what  that  reproachful 
little  look  said,  and  Terry  groaned  in  spirit  as  he  saw  and 
understood  and  chafed  against  the  fetters  that  bound  him. 

"See  here,  Crystal,"  he  said,  "there's  something  I  want 
to  say  to  you" — Crystal's  heart  gave  a  little  flutter  beneath 
the  roses,  Crystal's  lips  parted  in  an  irrepressible  smile — 
"but  I  can't  say  it  just  now." 

He  paused,  for  the  smile  faded  away,  and  the  light  blue 
eyes  looked  up  in  anger  and  alarm  to  his  face. 

"  I  can't  say  it  just  now,"  pursued  Mr.  Dennison,  with  a 
great  gulp,  "because — because  I've  promised.  I  don't 
know  why,  I'm  sure,  but  there's  something  to  be  told,  and  I'm 
to  go  back  and  hear  it  before  I  return  and  speak  to  youT 

Lucid  this,  certainly.  With  dilated  eyes  and  parted  lips, 
Miss  Crystal  Higgins  was  staring  up  at  him,  while  Terry 
floundered  hopelessly  through  this  morass  of  explanation. 


156  "WffO  IS  SHE?" 

"  I'm  going  to-morrow,"  went  on  the  dragoon  ;  "I  told 
her  I  would ;  but  I'm  coming  back — back  immediately, 
mind.  And  then  I  shall  have  something  to  say  to  you, 
Crissy,  that  I've  been  dying  to  say  for  the  past  year.  To 
day  I  can  explain  no  further.  Only — you  won't  be  angry 
with  me.  Crystal,  and  you'll  be  patient,  and  trust  me,  and 
wait  until  I  come  back  !  " 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly — a  woman  blind,  and  deaf, 
and  dumb,  might  have  understood  all  he  meant.  But  Miss 
Crystal  was  a  kittenish  little  coquette,  and  her  eyes  were 
cast  down  now,  and  the  rose-pink  color  had  deepened,  and 
she  was  pulling  her  roses  to  pieces  and  scattering  them  with 
a  ruthless  hand. 

"  I  don't  understand  a  word  you  are  saying,  Mr.  Denni- 
son,"  was  her  answer.  "  What  did  we  come  here  for,  I 
wonder  ?  Let  us  go  back.  I'm  dying  for  a  game  of  croquet, 
and  all  the  people  must  have  come." 

"Won't  you  promise  me,  then,  Crystal?" 

"  Promise  you  what,  Terry  ?  " 

"  To  wait  until  I  return.  To — to  not  forget  me,"  says 
poor  Terry,  with  a  sort  of  groan. 

Miss  Higgins  laughs.  When  a  girl's  lover  stands  before 
her  in  an  agony  of  masculine  awkwardness  and  bashfulness, 
that  girl  is  immediately  at  her  ease. 

"  Wait  until  you  return  ?  I  have  no  intention  of  running 
anywhere,  you  stupid  Terry.  Forget  you  ?  Now  how 
could  I  forget  you  if  I  tried,  when  your  name  is  a  household 
word  with  the  girls  from  morning  until  night  ?  Do  let  us  go 
back  and  play  croquet." 

<k  Wait  one  moment,  Crystal.  I  bought  you  this,  this 
morning.  Wear  it  for  my  sake  until  I  return,  and  then  I 
will  replace  it  with  a  diamond." 

He  produces  from  an  inner  pocket  a  tiny  case,  from  the 
case  a  tiny  ring  of  pearls  and  turquoise  only  made  for 
fairy  fingers.  But  it  slips  easily  over  one  of  Miss  Chris- 
tabel's. 

"  Wear  it,  Crystal,"  he  says,  softly,  "  for  my  sake." 

And  Terry  kisses  the  little  hand,  and  Crystal  looks  up  in 
his  face,  and  they  understand  one  another,  and  there  is  no 


"WHO  IS  SHE? 


157 


more  to  be  said.  She  is  a  good  little  thing  after  all,  and  not 
disposed  to  play  with  her  big,  awkward  lover.  It  is  all 
right ;  Terry  is  a  dear,  good  fellow,  and  she  will  tell  papa 
not  to  demand  his  intentions. 

They  stand  a  moment  still.  Over  the  flat,  distant  marshes 
the  August  sun  is  setting,  turning  the  pools  that  lie  between 
the  reeds  into  pools  of  blood.  The  distant  sea  lies  sleeping 
in  the  tranquil  light.  It  is  very  pretty — quite  Tennysonian, 
Miss  Higgins  pensively  thinks  ;  but  her  soul  is  with  the 
croquet  players.  "  Let  us  go  back,  Terry,"  she  is  on  the 
point  of  saying  for  the  third  time,  when  she  stops,  surprised 
by  the  look  Terry  wears.  He  is  staring  hard  straight  before 
him,  a  look  of  mingled  doubt,  recognition,  and  pleasure  on 
his  face.  Crystal  looks  too,  and  sees  coming  towards  them 
a  man. 

"  It  is  ! "  says  Terry,  in  delight.     "  Py  Jove  !  it  is  !  " 

"  It  is  whom,  Terry  ?  " 

"Eric.  I  wondered  he  hadn't  looked  me  up  before.  He 
has  been  stopping  at  Sir  Philip  Carruthers'  place  for  the  last 
five  days.  Yes,  it  is  Eric." 

"  Eric  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Eric — Lord  Dynely,  you  know.  No,  by  the  bye, 
you  don't  know,  but  you  have  heard  of  him  often  enough 
from  me." 

Yes,  Miss  Higgins  certainly  had,  and  looked  with  a  little 
flutter  again,  beneath  the  roses,  at  the  young  nobleman  ap 
proaching,  who  had  been  described  to  her  by  enthusiastic 
Terence  Dennison  "  as  the  best-looking  fellow  in  England." 

Miss  Higgins  looked,  and  saw  a  young  man  of  twenty-one, 
with  fair  hair,  handsome  blue  eyes,  a  little  golden  mustache, 
and  the  worn-out  air  of  a  centenarian,  who  has  used  up  all  the 
pleasures  of  this  wicked  world  some  sixty  or  seventy  years 
ago. 

"  Eric,  old  boy,  glad  you've  looked  me  up  at  last,"  was  all 
Terry  said,  but  his  whole  face  lit  as  if  the  mere  sight  of  the 
other  were  pleasant  to  him.  "  Let  me  present  you  to  Miss 
Crystal  Higgins.  Crystal,  the  friend  of  my  youth,  the  play 
mate  of  my  happy  childhood,  as  the  novels  have  it — Lord 
Dynely." 


158  "  WHO  is  SHE?" 

Lord  Dynely  lifted  his  hat  and  bowed  with  that  courtly 
grace  for  which  he  was  celebrated.  His  languid  eyes  kin 
dled  as  the  warrior's  when  he  sees  the  battle  afar  off.  Terry 
had  said  she  was  pretty.  Pretty !  Terry  was  a  Vandal,  a 
Goth  ;  the  girl  was  a  goddess  ! 

"  Are  you  a  good  one  at  croquet,  Eric  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Dennison.  "  If  so,  you  may  come  along.  This  is  Crystal's 
birthday  ;  there  is  a  croquet  party  at  the  vicarage,  and  good 
players  are  in  demand.  Crystal's  past  mistress  of  the  art ; 
as  the  old  song  says  : 

"  «  She's  a  hard  un  to  follow, 
A  bad  un  to  beat,' 

and  as  a  rule,  croquets  me  off  the  face  of  the  earth  in  two 
minutes  and  a  half." 

"If  Miss  Higgins  will  permit  me,  I  shall  only  consider 
myself  too  happy,"  murmurs  Dynely,  with  a  look  that  has 
done  its  work  before,  and  that  sets  Crystal's  foolish,  rustic 
heart  fluttering,  and  tremulous  blushes  coming  and  going. 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you  ! "  is  what  she  says,  in  her  dire  con 
fusion  of  blushes,  and  she  clings  unconsciously  to  Terry's 
arm,  and  feels  that  the  days  of  the  demi-gods  are  not  extinct, 
since  this  seraphic  young  nobleman  exists. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Criss}',"  says  Terry's  loud,  jolly  voice, 
as  he  pats  the  small  clinging  hand  confidingly.  "  Eric's  not 
half  so  ferocious,  bless  you,  as  he  looks  !  Heard  from  France 
or  the  madre  since  you  came  ?  " 

Eric  gives  him  a  look  and  a  frown.  Terry  has  no  tact. 
Is  this  a  place  to  talk  of — h'm — France  ? 

"  I  had  a  note  from  my  mother  by  this  morning's  post," 
he  answers.  "  She  bade  me  tell  you  not  to  fail  in  returning. 
That  is  why  I  looked  you  up.  Had  I  known  you  were 
dwelling  in  paradise,"  he  adds,  gayly,  "  I  would  have  hunted 
you  up  long  ago." 

They  reach  the  vicarage.  Lord  Dynely  is  presented  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Higgins,  the  Misses  Higgins  and  their  guests, 
and  strikes  all  the  ladies  mute  at  once  by  his  good  looks,  his 
courtly  grace  of  manner,  his  magnificent  condescension. 


"WHO   IS  SHE?"  i$g 

Yes,  he  can  play  croquet,  and  play  it  well.  He  and  the 
heroine  of  the  fete  come  off  triumphant  in  every  game.  They 
play  croquet,  and  that  other  classical  game  yclept  "  Aunt 
Sally,"  and  he  lingers  by  Crystal's  side,  and  for  the  one  thou 
sandth  time  his  inflammable  fancy  fires,  and  a  new  fair  face 
enchants  him. 

They  go  to  tea  under  the  gnarled  old  apple-trees.  There 
is  a  snowy  cloth,  old-fashioned  china  cups  of  pearl  and  blue, 
fragrant  tea,  home-made  pound  cake  and  jelly ;  and  Eric, 
whose  luncheon  has  been  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  biscuit, 
and  who  has  not  dined,  makes  a  martyr  of  himself,  and  drinks 
the  tea,  and  partakes  of  the  pound  cake  and  jelly  and  helps 
the  young  ladies,  and  pays  compliments,  and  tells  pretty  little 
stories. 

The  moon  has  arisen  before  they  have  done,  and  they 
dance  by  its  light  to  the  music  of  the  jingly  vicarage  piano, 
upon  which  the  nine  Miss  Higginses  have  practised  for  the 
last  twenty  years.  Then  they  adjourn  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  there  is  more  dancing,  and  presently  it  is  eleven  o'clock, 
and  the  party  breaks  up. 

"  You  go  back  to-morrow  then,  Dennison  ?  "  Lord  Dynely 
asks,  carelessly,  as  they  shake  hands  at  parting. 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  ?  " 

"  I  remain  two  or  three  days  longer.  Carrtithers  wishes  it, 
it's  rather  a  pleasant  house,  and  he's  a  good  fellow.  Capi 
tal  quarters  you  have  here,  old  man — a  very  seraglio  of 
beauty." 

"  How  do  you  like  her?"  Terry  inquires. 

"Which  her?  there  are  so  many.  Oh,  the  little  queen  of 
the  revels,  of  course.  As  charming  a  little  woodland  nymph 
as  ever  I  saw.  My  taste  doesn't  generally  run  to  rustic 
beauties,  but  she's  as  sweet  as  one  of  her  own  roses.  When 
am  I  to  congratulate  you,  Terry,  my  boy  ?  " 

"Soon,  I  hope,"  Terry  answers,  with  a  laugh  and  a  happy 
light  in  his  eyes  •  and  Lord  Dynely  looks  at  him  with  a  curi 
ous  smile  as  he  rolls  up  a  cigarette  to  light  him  on  his 
homeward  way. 

She  sees  him  to  the  gate — how  he  manages  it  no  one  can 
tell,  but  he  is  exceptionally  clever  at  these  things.  She  goes 


"WHO  IS  SHE?" 

with  him  to  the  gate  and  gives  him  a  shy  little  hand  across 
it,  the  hand  that  wears  Terry's  ring. 

"  May  I  come  again,  Crystal  ?  " 

Her  name  comes  naturally  and  he  speaks  it.  It  fits  her 
somehow,  and  Miss  Higgins  is  a  horrible  cognomen  for  this 
pearl  of  price.  What  she  answers,  the  stars  and  Lord  Dynely 
alone  know.  It  is  satisfactory,  doubtless,  for  that  half-smile 
is  still  on  his  lips  as  he  saunters,  smoking,  home. 

"The  most  charming  little  fairy  I've  seen  this  many  a 
day,"  he  thinks.  "  And  she  is  to  marry  Terry  ;  big,  uncouth, 
lumbering  Terry.  It  would  be  a  sacrilege.  „  How  she 
blushes,  and  shrinks,  and  trembles — one  sees  so  little  of  that 
sort  of  thing  that  its  novelty  charms,  I  suppose.  One  of 
those  tender  little  souls  whose  heart  a  man  could  break  as 
easily  as  I  knock  the  ash  off  this  cigarette." 

It  is  midnight  when  he  reaches  the  Court.  He  goes  to 
his  room,  but  not  to  bed.  He  sits  staring  abstractedly  out, 
and  smoking  no  end  of  cigarettes.  Wonderful  to  relate,  he 
is  thinking.  It  is  something  which,  on  principle,  Lord 
Dynely  never  does,  but  he  does  it  to-night.  The  result  is 
the  writing  of  a  letter.  He  flings  away  his  last  cigarette, 
sits  down  to  his  writing-desk,  and  dashes  this  off : 

"CARRUTHERS  COURT,  August  $th,  1870. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRANCE  : — Since  we  parted  I  have  been  think 
ing  over  what  you  said,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  were  right,  that  it  is  unjust  and  ungenerous  to  hold 
you  to  a  compact  made  without  your  consent.  I  love  you 
devotedly — that  I  must  ever  do ;  but  I  shall  never  compel 
you  to  marry  me  if  you  do  not  love  me  in  return.  No, 
France,  at  any  cost  to  myself,  at  any  suffering — and 
that  I  shall  suffer  need  I  say  ? — I  will  resign  all  claim  to 
your  hand.  Unless  you  feel  that  the  devoted  affection  I 
offer,  you  can  return,  then  far  be  it  from  me  to  force  you 
into  a  loveless  union.  /  may  be  wretched,  but  you  shall  be 
free. 

"  I  see  plainty  now  how  selfish  I  have  been  in  urging  my 
claims  upon  you  in  the  past.  Unless  your  own  heart  responds, 
believe  me,  they  shall  never  be  forced  upon  you  in  the  future. 


"  WHO   IS  SHE?"  161 

Write  to  me  here — it  will  be  less  painful  for  both  of  us  than 
a.  personal  interview.  If  you  can  care  for  me,  then  call  me 
back,  and  I  will  fly  to  you,  with  what  joy  you  can  imagine  ;  if 
you  find  you  cannot,  then  i  bow  my  head  and  submit  to  your 
decision.  "  Ever  devotedly, 

"ERIC." 

Here  was  a  generous  piece  of  composition  !  Lord  Dynely 
actually  felt  in  a  glow  of  admiration  over  his  own  nobility, 
generosity  and  self-sacrifice,  as  he  sealed  and  addressed  it. 
Not  every  man  would  give  up  the  girl  he  loved  in  this  heroic 
fashion  and  resign  himself  to  life-long  misery  !  Not  many, 
by  Jove  !  and  so  France  must  think.  Only — this  in  some 
alarm — she  was  an  odd  girl ;  he  hoped  she  wouldn't  feel  calltd 
upon  to  be  equally  generous  and  insist  upon  accepting  him 
whether  or  no. 

By  next  morning's  post  this  letter  went  off  to  Devonshire. 
The  train  that  would  take  away  Terry  started  about  12:50. 
A  few  hours  later,  irreproachable  in  the  negligent  elegance 
of  his  costume,  Lord  Dynely  presented  himself  at  the  vicar 
age  door. 

They  were  all  very  jolly  girls,  except  the  three  eldest,  who 
were  scraggy  and  old  ;  but  Crystal-  was  a  pearl  among 
pebbles.  She  improved  upon  acquaintance  he  found  ;  she 
sang  for  him  in  a  sweet  mezzo-soprano  ;  she  wandered  with 
him  in  the  garden,  and  inserted  one  of  her  rose-buds  in 
his  button-hole.  She  was  altogether  delicious,  and  next  day 
his  lordship  came  again. 

That  evening's  post  brought  him  a  letter.  He  turned 
cold  as  he  looked  at  it — France's  bold,  firm  hand,  and  the 
seal  and  crest  of  the  Forresters.  It  looked  big  and  square, 
and  belligerent,  and  altogether  formidable.  Still  it  must  be 
read — six  crossed  pages  at  the  least,  he  thought  with  a  groan. 
Girls  never  lose  an  opportunity  of  inflicting  that  sort  of 
thing  on  their  victims.  He  opened  it.  It  consisted  of 
three  words — three  of  the  shortest  in  the  language  : 

"  DYNELY  ABBEY,  Thursday,  August  *]th. 

"DEAR  ERIC:    Who  is  she!     Affectionately. 

"  FRANCE." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

TELLING   TERRY. 

|N  the  evening  of  the  day  that  was  to  bring  Ter- 
rence  Dennison  to  the  Abbey,  Lady  Dynely  sat 
alone  by  her  chamber  window  waiting.  It  had 
been  a  sultry  August  day ;  the  air,  even  now, 
was  oppressive,  sky  and  atmosphere  heavily  charged  with 
that  electricity  which  precedes  a  thunderstorm.  In  the 
breathless  gloaming,  not  a  bough  stirred,  not  a  leaf  trembled, 
not  the  faintest  puff  of  wind  came  to  relieve  the  oppressed 
lungs  or  cool  the  hot  forehead.  Lady  Dynely  leaned  wear 
ily  against  the  glass.  At  all  times  pale,  she  was  almost 
ghastly  in  the  livid  twilight  as  she  sat  here.  She  was  waiting 
for  Terry,  and  in  all  the  years  that  were  gone,  in  all  the  years 
that  were  to  come,  she  was  in  all  probability  the  only 
woman  who  had  ever  trembled  or  faltered  at  the  approach 
of  Terry.  It  was  not  Terry  she  feared,  but  that  which  she 
had  to  tell  Terry,  that  which  had  lain  on  her  conscience, 
destroyed  her  peace  of  mind,  embittered  every  day  of  her 
life  for  the  past  sixteen  years.  A  secret  that,  when  given 
into  her  keeping  first,  had  been  the  secret  of  another's 
wrongdoing  and  cruelty,  but  which  had  since  become 
the  secret  of  her  sin.  She  was  a  good  woman,  a  con 
scientious  woman,  doing  her  duty  to  all  men  according 
to  her  light ;  a  kind  mistress,  charitable  benefactress,  a  lov 
ing  mother,  a  loyal  friend.  In  all  her  life  she  had  wilfully 
wronged  but  one  fellow-creature,  and  that  one  the  man  who 
venerated  and  loved  her  above  all  women  on  earth — Terry. 
But  she  was  a  weak  woman,  weak  in  her  pride  and  the  in 
tensity  of  her  love  for  her  son.  That  pride  and  that  love 
had  stood  between  her  and  duty,  had  sealed  her  lips,  and  led 
her  into  sin.  She  had  wronged  Terry,  deeply  and  deliber 
ately  wronged  him,  and  she  had  paid  the  penalty  in  a  re- 


TELLING    TERRY.  163 

morse  that  never  left  her,  that  preyed  on  health  of  body  and 
mind  at  once,  that  made  her  life  miserable.  The  burden  of 
her  guilt  was  a  burden  to  be  borne  no  longer — this  even 
ing  the  truth  should  be  told ;  then,  come  what  might,  her 
conscience  would  be  free. 

But  it  was  hard — how  bitterly,  humiliatingly  hard,  only  her 
proud  heart  knew.  She  dared  not  think  of  her  dead 
husband,  lest  she  should  be  tempted  to  hate  his  memory ; 
she  dared  not  think  of  her  son,  and  of  the  passionate  anger 
and  reproach  with  which  he  would  overwhelm  her,  should 
this  ever  reach  his  ears.  She  hardly  dared  think  of  Terry — 
the  loyal,  true-hearted  lad,  who  trusted  her  so  utterly,  who 
believed  in  her  so  implicitly,  whose  affection  and  gratitude 
were  so  profound.  On  all  sides  the  path  was  beset  with 
thorns,  but  the  path  must  be  trodden. 

"Help  me,  oh,  Heaven  !"  was  the  bitter  prayer  of  her 
heart ;  "  my  cross  seems  heavier  than  I  can  bear." 

There  came  a  step  she  well  knew  down  the  cor 
ridor — the  step  for  which  she  waited  and  watched.  There 
came  a  tap  at  the  door.  A  moment  she  paused  to  gather 
strength.  Then,  "  Come  in,"  she  said,  faintly,  and  Denni- 
son  entered. 

She  shrank  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  curtains.  In  the 
obscurity  of  the  twilit  room  he  could  not  see  the  fixed 
pallor  of  her  face  ;  yet  something  in  her  manner,  as  she  sat 
there,  startled  him.  He  advanced  and  took  her  hand. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter?"  he  anxiously  asked. 
"  You  are  not  ill  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  she  answered,  in  that  faint  voice.  "  Sit 
down,  Terry.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  story  to-night.  I 
should  have  told  you  long  ago,  but  I  have  been  a  coward — 
a  weak  and  wicked  coward — and  I  dared  not — I  dared  not." 

He  seated  himself  on  a  hassock  at  her  feet,  and  looked  up 
at  her  in  silent  wonder  and  alarm. 

"  You  have  trusted  me,  Terry,  been  grateful  to  me, 
loved  me.  Ah  !  my  poor  boy  !  that  trust  and  love  of  yours 
have  been  bitter  to  bear.  I  have  deserved  neither  from  you 
• — nothing  from  you  but  contempt  and  scorn." 

"  Lady  Dynely  ! " 


TELLING    TERRY. 

11 1  have  prayed  for  strength,"  she  went  on,  "but  strength 
did  not  come.  I  saw  my  duty  to  you  and  to  Heaven,  and 
to  my  own  conscience,  but  I  would  not  do  it.  I  have  con 
cealed  the  truth,  and  gone  on  in  secrecy  and  wronged 
you  from  first  to  last." 

"  Wronged  me  !  my  dear  Lady  Dynely ! "  he  exclaims,  in 
consternation.  "  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  " 

"Ah!  do  I  not?"  she  answers,  bitterly.  "It  sounds 
strangely,  Terry  ;  but  wait  until  you  hvve  heard  all.  Then 
you  will  despise  me  a  thousand  times  more  than  you  have 
ever  loved  me." 

"  That  I  will  never  do,"  he  answered,  steadily.  "  Tell 
me  what  you  will,  nothing  will  ever  alter  the  affection  and 
gratitude  I  feet  for  you.  It  has  grown  with  my  growth  ;  it 
is  part  of  my  life ;  I  could  almost  as  soon  lose  faith  in 
Heaven.  When  I  cease  to  believe  in  your  goodness  I  shall 
cease  to  believe  in  all  goodness  on  earth." 

"Don't !  don't !"  she  says,  in  a  voice  of  sharpest  pain. 
"  Wait  until  you  hear.  Terry,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to 
wonder  why  I  took  you  from  the  Irish  cabin  and  charged 
myself  with  your  care  and  education  through  life  ?  " 

"  Well,"  the  young  man  answers,  in  a  troubled  voice,  "at 
times — yes.  But  I  took  it  for  granted  the  meagre  story  I 
heard  of  myself  was  the  true  one.  I  am  the  orphan  son  of 
some  distant  connection  of  your  late  husband,  and,  in  your 
goodness  of  heart,  you  sought  me  out  and  provided  for  me. 
That  is  the  story,  is  it  not?" 

"  Ah,  no,  no,  no  ! — not  the  story  at  all.  My  goodness  of 
heart !  What  bitter  satire  it  sounds  from  your  lips.  A  dis 
tant  connection  of  my  late  husband  1  Terry — you  are  his 
son  !  " 

"  Lady  Dynely  !  " 

"  His  son,  Terry — his  elder  son  !  " 

He  sat  stricken  mute,  looking  at  her.  Was  Lady  Dynely 
insane  ?  What  was  this  she  was  telling  him  ?  Lord 
Dynely's  son  !  And  then  over  Terry's  face  there  came 
a.  sudden,  deep,  burning  flush.  Lord  Dynely's  son. — And 
his  mother  had  been  a  peasant  girl.  What  need  to  say 
more  ? — all  the  story  was  told  in  that. 


TELLING    TERRY. 

He  dropped  his  face  in  his  hands  like  a  man  stunned  by  a 
blow.  There  are  few  men,  even  the  worst,  who  do  not  ven 
erate  more  or  less,  the  memory  of  their  mothers.  To  Terry's 
simple  soul  she  had  been  a  tender,  idealized  memory — to 
keep  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  to  speak  of  never.  And  now  his 
father  had  been  Lord  Dynely  ! 

"  Lady  Dynely,"  he  said,  huskily,  "  why  have  you  told  me 
this?" 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  bowed  head. 

"  It  is  not  as  you  think,  Terry,"  she  said,  sadly.  **  I 
know  what  you  mean — it  is  not  that.  Your  mother  was 
Lord  Dynely' s  wife,  as  truly  as  ever  I  was.  You  are  Lord 
Dynely's  son,  as  truly  as  Eric  is.  More — you  are  Lord 
Dynely's  heir." 

He  scarcely  heard  the  last  words,  so  swift  and  great  a 
rush  of  joy  and  thankfulness  flooded  his  heart  at  the  first. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  she  heard  him  whisper  ;  "  tJiat  would 
have  been  hard  to  bear.  But — Lord  Dynely's  son!  Oh, 
Lady  Dynely,  pardon  me,  but  I  find  this  very  hard  to  be 
lieve." 

"  It  is  a  surprise,  no  doubt.  But  do  you  fully  understand, 
Terry  ? — You  are  not  only  Lord  Dynely's  son,  but  Lord 
Dynely's  heir." 

"  His  heir  ?  "  he  repeated,  bewildered. 

"You  are  three  years  older  than  Eric.  Do  you  not  see  ? 
Your  mother  was  Lord  Dynely's  wife  ;  you  are  not  Terrence 
Dennison,  but  Viscount  Dynely." 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  a  sort  of  horror  in 
his  eyes.  "  And  Eric  is — what  ?  " 

"  Yes— what  ?  "  Eric's  mother  cried,  wildly.  "  He  is  Eric 
Hamilton — the  younger  son,  with  a  portion  about  half  of 
what  he  spends  yearly  for  cigarettes  and  bouquets.  You  are 
the  heir  and  the  lord  of  the  land  ;  he  is  the  younger  son  and 
brother.  That  is  the  secret  I  learned  to  my  cost  sixteen 
years  ago,  by  your  father's  death-bed — the  secret  of  my  so- 
called  generosity  to  you,  the  secret  that  has  poisoned  and 
blighted  my  whole  life.  If  I  had  been  as  strong  in  my 
wickedness  as  I  am  weak,  I  would  have  kept  it  to  the  end , 
but  that  I  could  not  do.  It  is  told ;  a  load  is  off  my  soul  at 


1 66  TELLING    TERRY. 

last ;  you  know  the  truth,  and  my  son  and  I  are  at  youi 
mercy." 

Then  there  was  long  and  deep  silence  in  the  room.  She 
was  sitting  upright  in  her  chair,  her  face  gleaming  out  like 
marble  in  the  gray  gloom,  her  slender  hands  clenched  to 
gether  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  dry  and  haggard,  looking  straight 
into  vacancy.  For  Dennison,  he  sat  stunned,  absolutely 
stunned,  trying  with  his  whole  might  to  realize  this.  His 
head  was  in  a  whirl.  He  Lord  Dynely's  eldest  son  and  heir  ! 
— not  Terry  Dennison,  the  dependant,  the  poor  relation, 
but  a  peer  of  the  realm  !  P>ic,  lordly  Eric,  his  younger 
brother,  with  no  claim  to  the  title  he  bore,  to  the  thousands 
he  squandered  !  Not  a  powerful  mind  at  any  time,  never  a 
deep-thinking  brain  at  best,  mind  and  brain  were  in  a  help 
less  whirl  now. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  was  the  first  thing  he  said,  in  his 
dazed  bewilderment. 

She  drew  a  long,  heavy  breath,  and  set  herself  to  the  task. 
The  worst  had  been  told — it  was  bitter  almost  as  the  bitter 
ness  of  death,  and  yet  it  was  easier  telling  Terry  than  telling 
most  men.  Her  secret  had  weighed  upon  her  so  long,  tor 
tured  her  so  unbearably,  that  she  absolutely  felt  a  sense  of 
relief  already. 

"  Tell  you  all  ?  "  she  repeated ;  "  it  seems  very  little  to 
tell  when  all  is  told.  I  suppose  most  of  life's  tragedies  can 
be  told  in  few  words — this  certainly.  On  the  night  of  Lord 
Dynely's  death — sixteen  years  ago  this  very  night ;  was  it 
not  fit  to  choose  that  anniversary? — 1  learned  it  first  myself. 
I  recall  that  night  so  well — like  no  other  in  all  my  life.  My 
cousin  had  come  to  me — you  have  heard  of  him,  Gordon 
Caryll,  poor  fellow  ! — to  tell  me  his  story.  It  was  a  brilliant 
moonlight  night.  Arm-in-arm  we  walked  round  the  fish 
pond,  while  he  told  me  his  life's  tragedy,  in  brief,  bitter 
words.  I  see  it  all,"  she  said,  looking  before  her  with  dewy 
eyes,  her  voice  softening,  "like  a  picture.  The  white  light 
of  the  moon,  the  long,  black  shadows,  the  fish-pond  like  a 
sheet  of  circular  glass,  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  and  the  cool 
ness  of  the  evening  wind.  There  he  said  good-by — and  he 
left  me,  my  poor  Gordon  !  and  I  have  never  seen  him  since. 


TELLING    TERRY.  l6/ 

That  man,  Locksley,  reminds  me  of  him  somehow  ;  my  heart 
warms  to  him  whenever  we  meet  for  that  chance  resem 
blance." 

She  paused.  She  had  drifted  from  the  thread  of  her  story, 
thinking  of  the  soldier  cousin  from  whom  she  had  parted 
this  night  sixteen  years  ago. 

"  He  left  me,"  she  continued,  after  that  pause,  "  and  I 
still  lingered  out  there,  thinking  what  a  mistake  life  was  for 
most  of  us,  how  we  seem  to  miss  the  right  path,  where  happi 
ness  lies,  and  love  and  ambition  alike  lead  us  astray.  He 
had  married  for  love — I  for  ambition  ;  the  end  was  the  same 
to  both — darkest,  bitterest  disappointment.  I  had  never 
cared  for  Lord  Dynely ;  he  was  many  years  my  senior,  and, 
though  I  never  was  a  sentimental  girl,  all  the  liking  1  ever 
had  to  give  had  been  given  to  Gordon  Caryll.  I  had  to  do 
my  duty  as  a  wife  in  all  things,  but  I  was  not  a  happy  wife, 
had  never  been  ;  and,  when  they  brought  me  word  my  hus 
band  had  met  with  an  accident  and  lay  dying,  it  was  the  hor 
ror  we  feel  for  the  merest  stranger  who  meets  a  tragic  end 
that  filled  rne,  not  the  despairing  sorrow  of  a  loving  wife. 

"  I  hastened  to  him.  He  lay  dying  indeed — life  was  but 
just  there  when  I  reached  him.  But  he  was  a  man  of  most 
resolute  will ;  he  would  not  die  until  he  had  seen  me.  He 
had  been  very  fond  of  me — ah,  yes !  I  never  doubted  that, 
in  his  own  selfish,  passionate  way,  he  was  very  fond  of  his 
wife.  He  had  spared  himself  all  his  life,  but  now  that  he 
lay  dying  he  would  not  spare  me.  Thorough  and  utter 
selfishness  has  ever  been  the  chief  characteristic  of  his  race 
— I  wonder  sometimes,  Terry,  how  you  managed  to 
escape." 

She  paused  again  and  sighed.  She  was  thinking  of  her 
son.  Blindly,  devotedly  as  she  loved  and  admired  him,  she 
could  not  be  utterly  blind  to  his  faults.  Thoroughly  and  ab 
solutely  selfish  all  the  Dynelys  had  been,  thoroughly  and  ut 
terly  selfish  was  the  last  Lord  Dynely. 

"  As  I  knelt  by  his  bedside  there,  Terry,  he  told  me  in 
few  and  broken  sentences  the  sad  and  shameful  story.  In 
his  wanderings  through  Galway  he  had  met  Maureen  Gan 
non,  a  dark,  Spanish-looking  beauty,  as  many  of  these  Gal- 


1 68  TELLING    TERRY. 

way  girls  are,  and,  in  his  usual  hot-headed  fashion,  he 
fell  in  love  with  her.  He  had  been  noted  for  running  reck 
lessly  after  any  woman  who  struck  his  fancy  his  life  long ; 
another  trait  of  his  you  seem  to  have  escaped  and  my  poor 
Eric  to  have  inherited.  You  know  what  Irish  girls  are — the 
purest  women  under  heaven — love-making  that  did  not  mean 
marriage  was  utter  madness.  He  was  mad  where  his  own 
selfish  gratification  .was  concerned.  He  married  Maureen 
Gannon." 

Again  she  paused,  catching  her  breath  with  a  painful 
effort.  It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  the  rising  wind,  precur 
sor  of  coming  storm,  soughed  through  the  park.  An  elm 
just  outside  tapped  with  spectral  fingers  on  the  glass.  She 
shuddered  as  she  heard  it,  and  drew  closer  to  her  silent  and 
listening  companion. 

"  He  had  called  himself  Dennison  from  the  first,  and  under 
that  name  he  married  her.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in 
the  little  rustic  chapel  by  the  parish  priest.  Of  his  class  and 
friends  there  were  naturally  none  present ;  her  humble 
friends  and  family — that  was  all. 

"  He  took  her  away  at  once,  and  they  saw  no  more  of  her 
at  home  until  she  returned  to  die.  She  came  back  with  you 
in  her  arms,  and  the  story  of  her  life  was  at  an  end.  It  was 
such  an  old  story — hot  fancy  at  first,  cooling  fancy  after, 
coldness,  indifference,  utter  neglect,  and  finally  desertion. 
She  died,  and  you  were  left,  and  Lord  Dynely  was  free  to 
woo  and  win  another. 

"  I  was  that  other.  Of  the  girl  whose  heart  he  had  broken, 
of  his  only  child  in  poverty  and  neglect  in  Ireland,  I  believe 
he  never  once  thought — until  F.ric  was  born,  and  then  re 
morse  and  alarm  awoke  within  him  for  the  first  time.  She 
had  been  his  lawful  wife,  you  were  his  lawful  son  and  heir. 
He  loved  me,  as  I  say,  in  his  selfish  fashion ;  he  also  loved 
little  Eric,  and  a  great  fear  of  the  future  of  his  youngest  son 
began  to  come  to  him. 

"But  he  told  no  one,  he  took  no  steps  about  you,  he  just 
drifted  on  to  the  end,  putting  all  troublesome  thoughts  away 
from  him,  as  was  the  habit  of  his  life.  Only  when  he  lay 
dying  this  night,  and  thought  that  in  some  other  world  he 


TELLING    TERRY. 

might  have  to  atone  for  the  crimes  of  this,  he  turned  coward 
— once  more  self  became  his  first  thought.  What  did  it 
matter  what  became  of  Eric  or  me  so  that  he  atoned  and 
escaped  the  consequences  of  his  wrongdoing.  He  sent  for 
me  and  told  the  truth. 

"  'You'll  find  it  all  down  in  writing  in  my  desk,'  he  said. 
'  I've  made  a  clean  breast  of  it.  The  marriage  certificate 
and  the  youngster's  baptismal  record  are  there  too.  The 
iaw  might  pick  a  flaw  in  an  Irish  marriage  like  that,  but, 
Lucia,  when  a  man  comes  to  die  he  sees  these  things  in  an 
other  light  from  the  law  of  the  world.  I  couldn't  meet  that 
poor  girl  in  the  next  world,  as  I  may,  and  look  her  in  the 
face,  and  know  the  wrong  I've  done  her  son.  He's  the 
heir,  Lucia,  mind  that — not  Eric,  poor  little  beggar.  And 
I  want  you  to  do,  when  I  am  gone,  what  I  never  had 
courage  to  do  myself — the  right  thing  by  that  little  lad 
in  Ireland.  My  first  marriage  must  be  proven,  and  the 
young  one  come  to  his  rights.  You  are  provided  for  in 
any  case,  as  my  richly  dowered  widow,  and  your  boy  will 
have  a  younger  son's  portion.  But  the  one  in  Ireland, 
poor  Maureen's  boy,  is  the  heir,  mark  that.' 

"  I  knelt  beside  him,  Terry,  listening  to  this  dreadful  reve 
lation,  frozen  with  a  horror  too  intense  for  words  or  tears. 
I  have  loved  Eric  from  the  day  of  his  birth  I  think  with  four 
fold  mother  love  ;  he  has  all  I  had  ;  his  father  did  not  share 
my  heart  with  him,  as  is  the  happy  case  of  most  mothers. 
He  was  all  I  had  on  earth — all ;  and  now  I  was  called  upon 
to  stand  aside,  to  take  him  with  me,  and  give  his  title  and 
estates  to  another  woman's  son.  Terry,"  she  cried  out  "he 
asked  more  than  human  nature  could  give." 

Her  voice  broke  in  that  fierce,  hysterical,  sobbing  cry. 
Dennison  took  both  her  hands  in  his  and  held  them  in  that 
strong  but  gentle  clasp. 

"  I  think  he  did,"  he  answered  sadly. 

"  He  died  as  I  knelt  there,"  she  went  on,  "his  glazing 
eyes  fixed  threateningly  on  my  face  to  the  end. 

"  '  Mind/  he  said  to  me,  '  that  you  see  justice  done.  I 
couldn't  do  it;  you  must.  I  won't  rest  easy  in  my  grave 
unless  you  promise.  Promise  me  you  will  seek  out  this  boy, 
8 


170  TELLING    TERRY. 

and  see  him  righted  before  the  world.  Promise.'  They 
were  his  last  words.  But  the  promise  was  never  gi  fen — I 
couldn't  speak — not  to  save  his  life  as  well  as  my  own.  I 
knelt  there  stunned,  stupefied,  dazed,  soul  and  body.  While 
he  still  looked  at  me  the  awful  death  rattle  sounded.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  in  ghastly  threat  on  my  face  when  the  film 
of  death  sealed  them.  I  remember  no  more.  Some  one, 
after  a  time,  came  to  me,  and  I  fell  back  and  all  was  dark 
ness. 

"They  buried  him,  and  Eric  and  I  went  to  the  funeral  as 
chief  mourners  !  They  put  black  on  my  boy  ;  I  tore  it  off 
in  horror.  Mourning  for  the  father  who  had  so  bitterly 
wronged  him — no  !  I  wore  it,  but  there  was  no  mourning, 
only  fierce  rebellion  and  passionate  anger,  in  my  heart. 
They  put  up  a  marble  tablet  recording  his  social  and 
domestic  virtues,  and  under  the  glowing  record,  lflis  works 
do  follow  him'  Ah,  yes,  they  followed  him — in  bitterness 
and  remorse  and  shame.  I  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  the 
hollow  satire  of  it  all.  I  believe  my  mind  to  a  certain  degree 
gave  way,  my  health  began  to  fail.  I  had  a  horrible  dread 
of  this  man,  dead  in  his  grave  ;  that  night  and  its  revela 
tions  haunted  me  like  some  ghastly  nightmare.  1  could  not 
— would  not  obey.  I  trembled  with  horror  at  refusing,  it 
seemed  so  awful  to  deliberately  disobey  a  dying  command. 
He  couldn't  rest  easy  in  his  grave,  he  had  said,  if  I  disobeyed. 
A  sickening,  superstitious  fear  that  he  might  rise  from  that 
unquiet  grave  and  pursue  me,  nearly  froze  me  at  times  with 
terror.  I  believe  the  struggle  would  have  ended  in  insanity 
if  it  had  gone  on,  but  the  medical  men  ordered  me  to  Italy 
for  change  of  air.  I  went  to  Galway  instead,  and  found  you. 
The  rest  you  know.  I  compromised  with  rny  conscience, 
paltered  with  the  truth.  As  my  own  son  you  should  be  reared 
and  educated  ;  share  all  his  advantages — all  but  my  affec 
tion.  That,  my  poor  Terry,  much  as  you  deserved  it,  I 
could  not  give.  The  horror  and  hatred  I  was  wicked  enough 
to  fe^l  for  your  father  I  was  wicked  enough  to  feel  for  you. 
One  day  I  thought,  perhaps  when  I  was  dying  myself  I 
would  tell  you  ;  meantime  your  life  should  be  as  easy  and 
pleasant  as  money  could  make  it.  When  we  are  wronged, 


TELLING   TERRY.  iji 

not  knowing  we  are  wronged,  our  loss  is  nothing.  Eric 
should  never  give  up  his  title  and  estates  to  you,  the  son  of 
an  Irish  peasant  girl — his  life  should  never  tx  blighted  at  the 
dying  command  of  a  cruel,  and  selfish,  and  sensual  father. 
I  would  not  tell  the  truth. 

"  I  have  said  that  ten  thousand  times,  Terry,  and  the  years 
have  gone  on,  and  you  are  both  men.  His  majority  conies 
in  a  few  days  ;  France  is  to  be  his  wife,  the  girl  in  Lincoln 
shire  yours.  I  vowed  I  would  not  tell,  and  I  am  telling.  1 
have  prayed  passionate,  rebellious  prayers,  wearied  Heaven 
with  them,  to  know  the  right,  and  be  given  strength  to  do  it. 
That  strength  has  been  given  to  me  at  last — my  duty  is 
done.  You  know  the  truth — how  shamefully  all  your  life 
long  you  have  been  wronged  and  cheated.  Here  are  the 
papers  Lord  Dynely  left ;  I  am  prepared  to  repeat  the  story 
in  any  court  in  England.  All  that  seems  easy,  but — when 
I  think  of  Eric,  it  breaks  my  heart." 

Her  voice  died  away  in  a  choking  sob.  She  knew  so  well 
Eric's  passionate  anger,  his  fierce  rage  and  protest ;  how  he 
would  do  battle  to  the  death  with  his  interloper;  how  he 
would,  in  his  stormy,  selfish  wrath,  curse  the  father  and  hate 
the  mother.  Hate  her !  Ay,  his  life  long ;  your  weak 
and  selfish  men  are  good  haters  always.  Why  had  she 
not  held  her  tongue  ? — how  dared  she  speak  ? — what 
were  the  cowardly  dying  fears  of  ten  thousand  fathers 
to  his  birthright  ?  Was  this  her  pretended  love  for  him  ? 
Let  it  end  how  it  might  he  would  never  forgive  her,  never 
see  her  face  again.  She  knew  what  would  follow  as  well  as 
she  knew  that  she  sat  here. 

She  placed  a  packet  in  Terry's  hand.  He  loosened  his 
clasp  of  hers  and  took  it  in  dead  silence.  Even  he,  she 
thought  in  her  bitter  despair,  was  turning  against  her  already. 
And  this  is  what  it  was  to  do  one's  duty. 

"There  is  no  more  to  tell,"  she  said,  in  a  stifled  voice. 
"  Go  away,  Terry,  and  leave  me  alone." 

He  arose,  but  lingeringly,  and  stood  looking  at  her.  In 
the  deep  darkness  that  now  filled  the  room  he  could  see  but 
the  outli.ie  of  her  figure  and  the  white,  rigics  gleam  of  her 
face. 


172  TELLING   TERRY. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  yet,"  he  began,  in  a  con 
strained  voice,  that  did  not  sound  like  Terry's.  "  I  feel 
stunned  and  stupefied.  My  head  is  in  a  muddle.  It  is  all 
so  strange.  You  will  give  me  to-night  to  think  it  over — 
will  you  not  ?  " 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  it?"  she  answered,  huskily. 
"  All  is  in  your  own  hands  now.  You  are  master.  You 
are  Lord  Dynely." 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me?"  he  asked,  wistfully,  still 
hesitating. 

It  was  a  question  he  had  asked  her  many  times  in  his  life, 
when  her  look  of  half-concealed  dislike  had  repelled  and 
chilled  him,  and  he  had  wondered  timidly  what  he  had  done 
to  vex  her.  Its  wistful,  boyish  pathos  and  simplicity  went 
to  her  heart  now. 

"  Angry  with  you ! "  she  said,  with  a  sob.  "  Oh  my 
Terry !  you  never  gave  me  cause  for  anger  in  all  your  life." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  he  said,  simply :  "  I  hope  I  never 
will.  And,  Lady  Dynely,"  hesitating  again,  "  my  opinion 
cannot  matter  to  you,  of  course  ;  but  I  hope  you  feel,  I 
want  you  to  feel,  that  I  don't  blame  you  in  all  this.  I 
understand  how  you  must  have  felt — it  was  too  much  to  ask 
of  any  mother — you  would  have  been  more  than  mortal  to 
have  acted  as  he  commanded  you.'' 

She  only  looked  up  at  him  in  the  darkness  with  sad,  hope 
less  eyes.  "  You  would  have  done  it,  Terry,"  she  said. 

"No — I  don't  know.  I  am  not  very  heroic,  and  it 
requires  heroism  to  do  these  things.  I  am  an  awkward, 
blundering  sort  of  fellow,  not  much  like  Eric,  but  I  think. I 
could  more  easily  die  than  deliberately  wrong  any  one  I 
cared  for  to  gratify  myself.  You  know  what  I  mean,  Lady 
Dynely.  Don't  grieve  too  much  over  this;  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  in  trouble.  All  will  go  well  yet.  Eric — Eric  does 
not  know,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Not  yet !  oh,  not  yet !  T/iat  will  be  the  hardest  to  bear 
of  all." 

He  knelt  on  one  knee,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all  his 
life  touched  his  lips  to  her  cheek. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  and  love  made  Terry's  voice  like  an 


TELLING    TERRY. 


angel's,  "mother,  the  best  friend,  the  truest,  man  ever  had, 
don't  grieve.     All  will  go  well.     To-night  I  will    think    it 
over  —  to-morrow  we  will  make  an  end  of  it  forever." 
Then  he  arose  softly  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THINKING   IT   OUT. 

JHAT  night,  for  the  first  time  in  the  four-and- 
twenty  years  of  his  life,  Terry  Dennison  sz  t  up  until 
the  "  wee  sma'  hours  ayont  the  twal,"  and  thought. 
Thought ! — of  all  novel  experiences,  this  surely  was 
the  most  novel  in  this  supremely  thoughtless  young  man's 
life.  The  good  or  the  evil  of  Terry's  life,  and  there  had 
been  much  of  both,  had  alike  been  unpremeditated  ;  in  all 
things  he  had  acted  naturally  and  involuntarily,  and  with 
out  thinking  of  it  beforehand.  Now  in  a  moment  he  was 
called  upon  to  settle  the  destinies  of  four  lives — his  own, 
Eric's,  Lady  Dynely's  and  little  Crystal's.  A  sort  of  smile 
came  over  his  face  as  he  thought  of  it — he  the  arbitrator  of 
brilliant  Eric's  whole  future  life — he,  Terry. 

But  the  smile  quickly  faded  as  he  entered  the  room  and 
laid  the  little  packet  her  ladyship  had  given  him  down  upon 
the  table,  and  looked  at  the  yellow  paper,  the  faded  writing. 
The  father  who  had  wronged  him  so  greatly,  who  had  so 
irreparably  wronged  his  mother,  and  written  this — had 
striven  to  do  him  justice  when  that  justice  could  no  longer 
annoy  himself.  He  had  served  Satan  all  his  life,  and  would 
make  his  peace  with  Heaven  at  the  last,  at  any  sacrifice  to 
those  left  behind.  He  had  lived  a  life  of  sin  and  sensual 
ism,  and  would  offer  the  dregs  of  that  bad  life  to  his  Crea 
tor.  There  was  more  a  feeling  of  disgust  in  Terry's  breast 
than  any  other  as  he  looked  at  the  faded  writing  and 
thought  of  him  who  had  written  it,  dust  and  ashes  years 
ago. 

"  Anc  nis  works  do  follow  him !  " 

He  sat  down  and  looked  blankly  before  him.  He  was 
l.orl  Pynely's  elder  son;  no  longer  plain,  impecunious 


THINKING   IT  GUT. 


175 


Terry  Dennison,  a  dependant  on  a  great  lady's  bounty,  but 
Viscount  Dynely,  with  estates  and  mansions  in  half  a 
dozen  counties,  a  villa  at  Ryde,  a  rent-roll  as  long  as  his 
lineage.  And  he  could  make  Crystal,  Lady  Dynely.  His 
face  flushed  for  a  moment  at  that.  All  that  might  be  spread 
before  him,  a  glittering  vista.  He  was  one  of  the  least 
mercenary  of  men,  but  he  had  lived  too  long  in  the  world 
not  to  know  the  great  and  utter  change  it  would  make  in 
his  life.  One  of  the  oldest  titles  in  the  United  Kingdom, 
one  of  the  noblest  incomes — that  is  what  he  was  called 
upon  to  claim  or  resign  to-night.  For  a  moment,  as  he 
thought  of  it,  his  heart  beat  quick.  He  was  very  human 
after  all.  and  this  was  no  child's  toy  he  must  lay  down  or 
take  up.  Men  called  Terry  Dennison  a  good  fellow — 
rather  a  simple  soul,  perhaps,  but  a  good  fellow  all  the 
same.  He  had  few  enemies  and  many  friends,  but  in  their 
liking  for  him  there  was  more  or  less  blended  a  slight 
shade  of  contempt  He  was  one  of  them,  but  not  of  them. 
His  manners  and  habits  were  primitive  to  a  degree.  He 
wasn't  a  "plunger,"  as  they  were  to  a  man  ;  didn't  drink,  to 
speak  of;  didn't  gamble  at  all;  hunted  down  no  woman, 
married  or  single,  to  her  own  destruction.  He  was  behind 
his  age  in  all  these  things,  in  a  most  remarkable  degree. 
Still  men  liked  him,  and  laughed  with  Terry,  and  at  Terr)', 
and  never  carried  their  laughter  too  far.  He  was  the  soul 
of  good-nature,  but  there  was  that  in  his  six  feet  of  stature, 
his  trained  muscles,  and  scientific  British  way  of  "  hitting 
out  straight  from  the  shoulder."  on  occasions,  that  com 
manded  respect.  In  the  annual  battles  between  "  Town 
and  Gown,"  at  Oxford,  Dennison  had  ever  been  a  host  in 
himself.  In  all  athletic  and  field  sports  he  stood  his  own 
with  the  best  of  them.  He  was  a  "mighty  hunter  before  the 
lord,"  down  in  the  shires  ;  but  in  the  ball-room  and  the  bou 
doir,  at  court  and  at  courting,  Terry  was  decidedly  a  failure. 
He  never  lost  his  heart  for  barronne  or  ballerina,  duchess  or 
Actress ;  he  ran  away  with  no  man's  wife,  wasn't  a  fascina 
ting  sinner  of  any  sort.  He  had  his  failings,  they  were  many 
— he  had  his  virtues,  they  were  many  too,  and  generosity 
stood  chief  among  them.  To  give  pain  to  a  woman,  to  an) 


THINKING  IT  OUT. 

woman — to  a  woman  he  loved  and  venerated,  as  he  did 
Lady  Dynely,  would  have  been  impossible  to  him  ;  and  in 
asserting  this  claim  before  the  world  he  would  simply  break 
Lady  Dynely 's  heart. 

Wrong  had  been  done.  Yes  ;  but,  to  Terry's  mind,  hardly 
by  her.  She  loved  her  handsome  son,  as  few  sons  ever  de 
serve  to  be  loved,  and  Eric  Hamilton  certainly  did  not. 
How,  then,  loving  him,  could  she  deliberately,  and  at  the 
command  of  a  selfish  and  cowardly  husband,  hand  over  his 
birthright  to  a  stranger,  and  blight  his  whole  life  ?  Lord 
Dynely  had  asked  too  much ;  it  was  not  in  frail  human 
nature  to  do  it.  He  had  been  wronged,  but  not  by  her. 
Why,  she  might  have  left  him  all  his  life  in  that  Irish  cabin 
by  the  wild  Galway  coast,  to  drag  out  the  wretched,  unlet 
tered  life  of  a  peasant.  Who  then  would  have  been  the 
wiser  ?  But  she  had  come  for  him,  and  in  all  things  done 
by  him  as  her  own  son.  And  now,  at  last,  she  had  told  him 
all,  and,  at  all  cost  to  herself,  was  ready  to  prove  the  truth 
of  her  words.  Then  his  thoughts  drifted  to  Eric.  He  saw 
Eric's  rage  and  fury  as  plainly  as  he  saw  the  paper  on  the 
table,  the  blue  eyes  lurid  with  rage,  the  fair,  womanish  face 
crimson  with  anger  and  rebellion.  Eric  would  do  battle  to 
the  death,  would  contest  every  inch  of  the  ground.  The 
sympathy  would  be  with  Eric  ;  possession,  the  "nine  points 
of  the  law,"  would  be  with  Eric ;  the  glory  and  the  power 
were  Eric's  ; — what  chance  would  he  stand  ?  There  would 
be  an  endless  chancery  suit,  the  kingdom  would  ring  with 
the  scandal,  the  informal  Irish  marriage  would  be  contested  ; 
perhaps  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  proven  no  marriage  at  all. 
And,  meantime,  Lady  Dynely  would  have  broken  her  heart 
at  the  shame  and  publicity,  and  ended  her  part  of  the  trag 
edy.  No,  had  he  been  ever  so  inclined,  as  selfishly  bent  on 
his  own  interests  as  Eric  himself,  the  thing  was  impossible 
on  the  face  of  it.  But  he  was  not.  It  was  really  very  little 
of  a  sacrifice  to  him.  He  had  no  ambition  whatever — he 
was,  I  have  said,  a  most  commonplace  young  man.  Life  as 
he  held  it  contented  him.  With  his  commission,  his  five 
hundred  a  year,  and  Crystal  for  his  wife,  the  world  might 
wag  ;  he  asked  no  more  of  fate. 


THINKING  IT  OUT.  177 

With  a  long-drawn  breath  he  broke  from  his  reverie ;  with 
a  motion  of  his  hand  he  seemed  to  dismiss  the  whole  thing 
at  once  and  forever. 

He  lit  a  cigar,  opened  the  little  packet  and  looked  at  the 
papers.  The  marriage  certificate,  the  record  of  his  baptism, 
his  father's  brief,  terse  confession  of  his  own  marriage  to  the 
Galway  girl,  under  the  name  of  Dennison.  Ke  read  them 
all  gravely  and  tied  them  up  again. 

"Poor  soul,"  he  thought,  "it  was  hard  lines  on  her.  No, 
my  Lord  Dynely,  you  did  harm  enough  in  your  lifetime  ;  we 
won't  let  you  do  any  more  in  your  grave." 

He  rose  up,  went  to  the  open  window  and  smoked  away 
meditatively.  What  was  Crystal  doing?  Ah,  asleep  no 
doubt,  little  darling,  his  ring  on  her  finger  and  thoughts  of 
him  in  her  heart.  He  would  go  down  to-morrow,  and  tell 
her  what  had  been  in  his  heart  so  long.  He  could  see  the 
dear  little  face,  dimpling  and  smiling,  and  blushing,  hear  the 
dear  little  voice  faltering  forth  its  tender  confession,  and 
Terry's  whole  soul  was  in  one  glow  of  love  and  gratitude 
and  rapture.  How  happy  he  would  make  her  life,  how  de 
votedly  he  would  cherish  his  little  stainless  lily,  how  sweet  it 
would  be  to  care  for  her,  and  devote  his  whole  existence  to 
her.  Yes,  to-morrow  he  would  go  down,  and  before  Christ 
mas  they  would  be  married,  and  then — well,  Terry  was 
not  imaginative — and  then  they  would  live  happy  forever 
after. 

Mr.  Dennison  was  not  an  early  riser.  The  early  bird  that 
catches  the  worm  was  no  kin  of  his.  All  the  clocks  and 
watches  of  Dynely  were  sharply  marking  the  hour  of  one, 
when,  in  freshest  morning  toilet,  shaven  and  shorn,  he  pre 
sented  himself  before  Lady  Dynely. 

•  My  dear  Lady  Dynely,"  he  began,  and  there  stopped. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  a  ghastly,  terrified  face  he  saw. 
White  with  a  pallor  like  death,  lips  blue  and  parched,  eyes 
haggard  and  hopeless.  She  had  slept  not  at  all — she  had 
spent  the  whole  night  in  fevered  pacing  to  and  fro,  half 
maddened  at  the  thought  of  what  she  had  done,  of  what 
might  be.  The  world  would  know.  Eric  would  know  — 
there  lay  the  bitterness  of  death.  Terry  was  generous,  but 
8* 


178  THINKING  IT  OUT. 

to  her  the  generosity  that  would  hide  this  from  the  world 
looked  more  than  mortal. 

She  stood  up  and  confronted  him,  one  hand  holding  by 
her  chair,  her  haggard  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face.  So 
might  look  a  terrified  woman  waiting  for  sentence  of  death. 
She  tried  to  speak — her  dry  lips  trembled,  only  a  husky 
sound  came. 

He  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment,  holding  both  hands  fast 
in  his,  full  of  pity  and  remorse.  How  she  had  suffered. 
Why  had  he  kept  her  in  suspense  even  for  a  single  night  ? 
How  little  she  knew  him,  when  she  could  fear  him  like  this. 
It  gave  him  a  pang  of  absolute  pain. 

"  Lady  Dynely — my  dearest  mother — you  did  not  think  I 
could  ever  use  the  secret  you  told  me  last  night  ?  If  you 
did,  then  you  have  certainly  wronged  me.  I  loved  you  too 
well,  Eric  too  well,  ever  to  dream  of  such  shameful,  selfish 
ingratitude.  Look  here  ! " 

He  drew  out  the  packet,  took  a  match,  struck  it,  and 
touched  it  to  a  corner  of  the  paper,  then  threw  it  in  the 
grate. 

She  uttered  a  gasping  cry — a  cry  he  never  forgot — then 
stood  spellbound. 

With  fascinated  eyes  both  watched  the  paper  shrivel,  then 
blaze  up,  then  a  cloud  of  black  drift  floated  up  the  chimney, 
and  the  record  of  the  Irish  marriage  was  at  an  end. 

"With  that  ends  our  secret,"  Terry  said.  "  Living  or 
dying,  a  word  of  what  you  told  me  will  never  pass  my 
lips." 

She  fell  heavily  forward,  her  arms  around  his  neck,  her 
face  on  his  shoulder,  shaking  from  head  to  foot  with  dry, 
hysterical  sobbing.  He  held  her  close ;  neither  spoke  a 
word,  and  there  were  tears  big  and  bright  in  Terry's  round 
blue  eyes.  Then  very  gently  he  put  her  back  in  her  chair 
and  knelt  down  before  her. 

"  Don't,"  he  said,  pleadingly ;  "  it  hurts  me  to  hear  you. 
How  could  you  think  I  would  do  what  you  feared  ?  What 
a  wretch  you  must  have  thought  me." 

"  A  wretch !  Oh,  my  Terry,  my  Terry  !  You  are  more 
an  j-.nel  than  a  man  !  " 


THINKING  IT  OUT. 

Terry  laughed.  It  was  all  very  solemn,  but  the  idea  of 
Terry  Dennison  in  the  role  of  angel,  tickled  the  dragoon's 
lively  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  that  merry  schoolboy  laugh 
of  his  pealed  forth. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Dynely,"  Terry  said,  struggling 
manfully  with  that  explosion  ;  "  that's  a  little  too  good.  You 
are  the  first,  I  give  you  my  word,  who  ever  accused  me  of 
angelic  qualities.  And  I  don't  deserve  it — oh,  I  assure  you 
I  don't — it  isn't  any  sacrifice  to  me.  I  am  not  an  am 
bitious  sort  of  fellow,  nor  a  clever  fellow,  nor  a  brilliant  fel- 
lo\v,  like  Eric.  As  a  dragoon,  with  five  hundred  a  year  and 
the  dearest  little  girl  in  England  for  my  wife,  I  am  a  round 
peg,  fitting  neat  and  trim  in  a  round  hole.  As  a  nobleman, 
with  title  and  estates,  and  the  noblesse  oblige  business  to  do, 
I  would  be  an  object  of  pity  to  gods  and  men.  Eric  was 
born  a  darling  of  fortune  ;  I  was  born — plain  Terry  Denni 
son." 

She  looked  at  him  with  sad,  yearning,  wondering  eyes. 
Her  arms  still  looselv  clasped  his  neck  as  he  knelt  before 
her. 

"  Plain  Terry  Dennison  !  "  she  repeated  ;  "  Terry,  you  are 
the  stuff  heroes  are  made  of.  Eric  is  not  like  you — ah,  if 
he  only  were  1  Where  did  you  get  this  generous  heart,  this 
great,  grateful  soul  of  yours  ?  You  have  your  lather's  face — 
ay,  you  are  like  him  to  the  very  color  of  his  hair.  You  have 
his  face — Eric,  I  fear — I  fear  his  heart." 

"  Oh,  Eric  isn't  half  a  bad  fellow,"  responded  Terry, 
uneasily.  He  was  uncommonly  fond  of  Lady  Dynely,  but 
he  was  only  a  man,  and  the  heroics  were  becoming  a  little 
too  much  for  him.  "  Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more. 
Let  all  be  as  though  you  had  never  told,  as  though  I  were  in 
reality  what  I  have  all  along  considered  myself — a  distant 
connection  of  a  very  grand  family.  If — ,"  Terry's  head 
drooped  a  little  and  his  color  rose — "  if  it  makes  you  ever 
so  little  fonder  of  me,  Lady  Dynely,  then,  as  the  goody  sort 
of  novels  say,  '  I  shall  not  have  labored  in  vain.' " 

She  bent  forward  and  kissed  him,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  as  fondly  as  she  might  have  kissed  Eric. 

"Who  could  help  being  fond  of  you,  Terry?     That  girl 


l8o  THINKING  IT    OUT. 

in  Lincolnshire  is  a  happy  and  fortunate  girl,  indeed  I 
know  you  are  dying  to  go  back  to  her,  but  just  at  present  I 
feel  as  though  I  could  not  let  you  out  of  my  sight.  My 
wonderful  good  fortune,  your  wonderful  generosity,  seem 
altogether  unreal.  If  I  lose  you  I  shall  doubt  and  fear,  and 
grow  wretched  again.  My  nerves  are  all  unstrung.  Stay 
with  me  yet  a  few  days,  Terry — the  happiness  of  your  life  is 
all  before  you — until  I  have  learned  to  realize  how  blessed 
I  am." 

It  was  a  far  greater  sacrifice,  had  she  but  known  it,  than 
the  sacrifice  he  made  in  resigning  all  claim  to  title  and  for 
tune.  But  he  made  it  promptly  and  gratefully. 

"I  will  remain  a  week,"  he  said;  "as  I  have  waited  so 
long,  a  few  more  days  will  not  signify." 

He  wrote  down  to  Lincolnshire.  A  week  would  pass 
before  he  could  be  with  them,  but  he  was  surely  coming,  and 
meantime  he  was  "  Hers  devotedly,  Terry." 

The  order  of  release  came  at  last.  Armed  with  his  ring, 
a  half-hoop  of  diamonds  to  fit  the  dearest  little  engagement 
finger  on  earth,  Mr.  Dennison  started,  one  bright  August 
morning,  on  his  way.  The  birds  were  singing,  the  sun  was 
shining,  the  grass  was  as  green  as  though  it  had  been  painted 
and  varnished,  the  sky  was  without  a  cloud.  So  was  his 
sky,  Terry  thought ;  and  in  faultless  summer  costume,  look 
ing  happy  and  almost  handsome,  his  long  limbs  stretched 
across  on  the  opposite  cushions  of  the  railway  carriage,  he 
was  whirled  away  to  Starling  vicarage. 

"  A  frog  he  would  a  wooing  go 
Whether  his  mother  would  let  him  or  no," 

hummed  Terry,  unfolding  that  morning's  Daily  Telegraph. 
"  I  wonder  what  my  precious  little  girl  is  about  just  now ! 
And,  by  the  bye,  I  should  like  to  know  why  Eric  doesn't 
come  home.  Egad  !  I  should  think  France  wouldn't  like 
it — home  for  an  evening  and  off  again,  and  stopping  away 
over  two  weeks.  Is  he  at  Carruthers'  still,  and  what's  the 
dear  boy's  little  game  now,  I  wonder  ?  " 
What,  indeed  ? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AT  THE   PICNIC. 

ITH  that  brilliant  light  of  the  Augast  afternoon 
pouring  down  over  everything  like  amber  rain, 
Mr.  Dennison  opened  the  little  wicket  gate  and 
made  his  way  into  the  vicarage.  It  was  all  ablaze 
with  double  roses,  and  honeysuckle,  and  verbena,  and  gera 
nium,  and  fuchsia,  and  the  summer  air  was  sweet  with  drifts 
of  perfume.  All  the  windows  and  doors  of  the  vicarage 
stood  open,  but  a  Sabbath  silence  reigned.  As  his  lofty  six 
feet  darkened  the  parlor  doorway,  the  only  occupant  of 
that  apartment  looked  up  from  her  sewing  with  a  little  sur 
prised  scream.  It  was  the  eldest  and  scraggiest  of  the 
three  elder  Misses  Higgins. 

"  Lor  !  "  cried  Miss  Higgins,  "what  a  turn  you  gave  me. 
Is  it  you,  Terry?  Who'd  have  thought  it?  Come  in.  You 
see  1  wasn't  expecting  anybody  to-day,  and  all  the  rest  are 
off  but  Belinda  and  me,  and — " 

"  Off ! "  cried  Terry,  blankly  ;  "  off  where,  Arabella?  " 

"  Off  to  the  picnic.  Oh,  I  forgot,  you  don't  know.  Sir 
Philip  Carruthers,  Lord  Dynely,  and  some  of  the  gentlemen 
stopping  at  the  Court,  have  organized  a  picnic,  and  all  the 
rest  have  gone.  I  and  Belinda  were  invited,  but  some  one 
must  stay  home  and  do  the  work,  while  the  others  gad.  Be 
linda's  in  the  kitchen,  making  jam — I'm  sewing  for  Crystal. 
It's  always  the  way,"  said  the  elder  Miss  Higgins,  bitterly  ; 
" c  this  little  pig  goes  to  market,  and  this  little  pig  stays  at 
home.'  I've  been  the  one  to  stay  at  home  all  my  life." 

"Where's  the  picnic,  Bella?"  asked  Terry,  briskly. 

For  a  moment — a  moment  only — he  had  felt  inclined  ta 
be  disappointed  at  this  contretemps ;  now  it  was  all  right 
again. 


jg2  AT  THE  PICNIC, 

"  At  Carruthers  Court,  of  course,"  Bella  answered.  "  They 
have  had  no  end  of  water  parties,  and  garden  parties,  and 
croquet  parties,  and  junketings  since  you  went  away.  Crys 
tal's  growing  a  regular  gadabout,  and  so  I  tell  mamma.  A 
chit  of  a  child  like  that  ought  to  be  in  the  nursery  for  the 
next  two  years,  instead  of  flirting  and  carrying  on  with  gen 
tlemen  in  the  way  she  does.  I  never  did  such  a  thing  when 
I  was  a — oh,  he's  off.  Another  of  little  missy's  victims,  I 
suppose.  What  fools  men  are." 

The  eldest  Miss  Higgins,  aged  thirty-five,  was  not  vicious, 
as  a  rule,  but  the  blind  neglect  of  mankind  during  the  last 
fifteen  years  had  rather  soured  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
in  her  vestal  bosom.  She  went  back  to  her  sewing,  and 
Terry  went  to  the  picnic. 

The  walk  was  a  long  one,  the  afternoon,  as  I  have  before 
remarked,  hot.  The  summer  fields  lay  steeped  in  sunshine, 
the  scarlet  poppies  nodding  in  the  faint  breeze.  Terry's 
complexion  was  the  hue  of  the  poppies  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  festal  ground.  Tents  and  marquees  everywhere 
dotted  the  sward  ;  the  military  brass  band  discoursed  sweet 
music  beneath  the  umbrageous  foliage  ;  archery,  croquet, 
dancing  and  other  sports,  in  which  the  youthful  and  frivolous 
mind  delights,  were  going  on.  Girls  in  white,  girls  in  blue, 
girls  in  pink,  girls  in  lilac  and  green,  dotted  the  velvet  sward 
like  gorgeous  posies,  but  the  girl  of  his  heart  Mr.  Dennison 
could  nowhere  behold. 

"  Ah,  Terry,  my  lad,"  said  the  Rev.  Samuel  Higgins,  ex 
tending  one  clerical  hand  in  a  black  thread  glove,  "  how  are 
you  ?  When  did  you  come  ?  " 

"Just  now.     Where's — I  mean  where  are  the  girls  ?  " 

"Amelia,  and  Josephine,  and  Emiline  are  yonder,  en 
gaged  in  archery  ;  Cornelia  and  Victoria  are  playing  cro 
quet  ;  Evangeline  is  with  her  mother,  and  Elizabeth  Jane 
was  with  me  a  moment  ago.  Arabella  and  Belinda  are  at 
home,"  answered  calmly  the  Reverend  Samuel. 

"  I  saw  Bella.  Where's  Crystal  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dennison,  in 
desperation. 

"  Crystal  is — ahem  !  "  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Higgins, 
looking  meekly  about  through  his  spectacles.  "I  don't 


AT  THE  PICNIC. 


183 


see  Crystal.  Elizabeth  Jane,  my  child,  where  is  Christa 
bel  ?  " 

"  Crissy's  gone  off  for  a  sail  with  Lord  Dynely,  pa,"  an 
swered  in  a  pert  tone  the  seventh  Miss  Higgins,  with  a  sharp 
glance  at  Mr.  Dennison.  "  If  you  want  to  find  them,  Terry, 
/'//  guide  you." 

Elizabeth  Jane  took  Mr.  Dennison's  arm  and  led  him 
briskly  across  meadows,  down  woody  slopes,  to  where,  be 
tween  two  sloping  hills,  a  broad  mere,  a  miniature  lake,  lay. 
And  there,  half-way  out,  went  floating  a  little  white  boat  like 
a  great  water  lily,  and  in  that  boat  a  young  gentleman  and  a 
young  lady  sat. 

"That's  Criss,"  said  Elizabeth  Jane,  sharply,  "and  that's 
Lord  Dynely.  I  don't  know  what  Lord  Dynely' s  intentions 
may  be,  but  if  I  were  pa  I  would  ask." 

Terry's  face  flushed.  He  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  sharp  contraction  of  the  heart. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lizy  Jane  ?" 

"  This,"  said  the  seventh  and  sharpest  of  the  Misses  Hig 
gins,  "  that  Lord  Dynely  comes  a  great  deal  too  often  to  the 
vicarage,  and  pays  a  great  deal  too  marked  attention  to  our 
Criss  for  an  engaged  man.  He  is  an  engaged  man,  isn't  he, 
Terry?" 

"Yes — no — I  don't  know — Elizabeth  Jane,  you  don't 
mean  to  say  that  Crystal  has — has" — his  ruddy  com 
plexion  turned  white — "  fallen  in  love  with  Lord  Dynely  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  retorted  Elizabeth  Jane, 
still  sharply  ;  "  I  don't  go  mooning  about  myself,  reading 
novels  and  poetry  books,  week  in  and  week  out ;  I  have  my 
district  visiting,  and  Bible  society,  and  Dorcas  meetings  to 
attend.  I  don't  know  anything  about  falling  in  love  and 
that  sentimental  rubbish,"  says  Elizabeth  Jane,  her  black 
eyes  snapping  ;  "but  I  do  know,  if  I  were  pa,  I'd  not  have 
a  gay  young  nobleman  loafing  about  my  house  from  morn 
ing  until  night,  flirting  with  my  prettiest  daughter,  taking 
moonlight  rambles,  and  sunlight  rambles,  and  early  morning 
rambles,  and  lying  on  the  grass  at  her  feet  for  hours  at  a 
stretch,  reading  Meredith  and  Tennyson,  and  holding  skeins 
of  silk  for  'ier,  and  singing  duets  with  her,  and — bah  1"  says 


1 84  AT  THE  PICNIC. 

Elizabeth  Jane,  with  snappishness,  "if  pa  had  three  pairs  of 
glasses  he  wouldn't  see  what  goes  on  under  his  nose." 

"  And  they  carry  on  like  this  ! "  Terry  asked,  in  blank 
dismay. 

"  Like  this  !  You  ought  to  see  them.  You  can't  so  much 
as  mention  his  name  to  Crystal  but  she  blushes  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair.  I've  told  pa,  Bella's  told  pa — what's  the  use  ? 
'Tut,  tut,  tut,  children;  let  the  little  one  enjoy  herself. 
He's  only  a  good  looking  boy,  she's  only  a  child.'  That's 
what  pa  says.  Queer  sort  of  child's  play,  I  think.  And  ma, 
she's  worse.  We  all  know  what  ma  thinks,  that  she'll  have 
a  *  my  lady,'  for  her  daughter.  I've  no  patience  with  such 
folly  !  "  cries  the  practical  and  matter-of-fact  Miss  Elizabeth 
Jane  Higgins. 

Terry  stands  dead  silent.  The  ruddy  heat  has  faded  out 
of  his  complexion,  leaving  him  very  pale.  He  looks  with 
blank  eyes  at  the  shining  water.  The  little  white  boat 
has  turned  a  wooded  bend  and  disappeared.  Crystal  is 
singing  now. 

Her  sweet  voice  comes  to  them  where  they  stand.  The 
clear  tenor  tones  of  Dynely  blend  presently  with  hers. 
They  stand  silent  both,  until  the  last  note  of  the  music  dies 
away. 

"  Come,"  says  Elizabeth  Jane,  looking  up  in  Terry's  face, 
and  not  without  a  touch  of  compassion  in  her  own.  She 
likes  Terry ;  she  is  engaged  to  the  Rev.  Edwin  Meeke,  her 
father's  curate,  whose  name  but  faintly  sets  forth  his  nature, 
and  can  afford  to  be  sisterly  and  practical,  and  her  liking  for 
the  big  dragoon  is  beyond  reproach.  "  Only  if  you're  a 
friend  of  Miss  France  Forrester  and  our  Crystal,  drop  Lord 
Dynely  a  hint  to  make  his  vicarage  visits  more  like  angels', 
few  and  far  between." 

She  leads  hii«n  back.  But  the  glory  has  gone  out  of  the 
heavens,  the  beauty  from  the  earth.  The  sun  no  longer 
shines,  or  if  it  does,  it  shineth  not  on  Terry.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  is  jealous.  Elizabeth  Jane  does  with  him 
as  she  pleases.  She  holds  his  arm  and  leads  him  about,  and 
talks  to  him  in  her  sharp  little  staccato  voice  of  the  house 
"  Mr.  Meeke  "  is  furnishing — of  the  poor  of  the  parish — of 


AT   THE  PICNIC.  ^5 

her  schools  and  societies,  and  it  all  falls  dead  flat  on  Terry's 
ears.  He  hears  as  he  might  hear  the  drowsy  ripple  of  a  mill 
stream — he  comprehendeth  not.  "  Crystal  and  Eric — Eric 
and  Crystal,"  these  united  names  ring  the  changes  over  and 
over  and  over  again  in  his  dazed  brain. 

"There  they  are!"  cries  Elizabeth  Jane,  with  another 
vicious  snap  of  the  little  dark  eyes.  "Pretty  pair,  aren't 
they?" 

The  seventh  Miss  Higgins  did  not  mean  it  in  that  sense, 
but  they  were  a  pretty  pair.  They  came  together  over  the 
grass.  Eric,  tall,  languid,  elegant,  handsome,  in  faultless 
summer  costume,  a  straw  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes ; 
Crystal,  in  pale  rose-pink  gauze,  a  little  straw  flat  tilted  over 
her  pretty  Grecian  nose,  and  a  bunch  of  big  fragrant  water 
lilies  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  specialty  of  the  prettiest  Miss 
Higgins  that  you  rarely  saw  her  except  covered  with  floral 
decorations.  They  espied  Elizabeth  Jane  and  her  escort, 
and  Crystal  gave  a  little  nervous  start  and  gasp  for  breath. 

**  Oh ! "  she  said,  in  that  frightened  whisper,  "  it  is 
Terry  ! " 

"Ah,  ya-as — so  it  is,  Terry,1'  drawled  Lord  Dynely,  put 
ting  up  his  eye-glass.  "  Where  did  he  drop  from  ?  I  say, 
little  'un,  how  are  you  ?  " 

He  sauntered  up  to  Terry  with  the  words,  and  held  out 
one  languid  hand.  Terry  took  it,  and  dropped  it,  as  if 
it  burned  him.  For  the  first  time  the  sight  of  Lady  Dynely's 
son  gladdened  neither  his  eyes  nor  his  heart. 

"Didn't  expect  you,  you  know.  Glad  to  see  you  all  the 
same.  Awfully  warm  work  travelling  it  must  have  been. 
Just  come  ?  " 

"Just  come,"  Terry  responded,  coldly,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Crystal's  face.  That  face  was  flushed  and  drooping ;  the  shy, 
averted  glance,  the  shy,  reluctant  hand,  smote  him  to  the 
heart. 

"  You  are  well,  Crystal  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  received  my 
letter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you." 

It  is  always  Miss  Crystal's  formula  when  greatly  embar- 


1 86  AT  THE  PICNIC. 

rassed,  and  then  she  stood  blushing  and  downcast,  tracing 
figure?  on  the  grass  with  her  white  parasol. 

"  You  don't  ask  after  them  at  home,  Dynely,"  said  Terry, 
looking  at  him  ;  "  your  mother  or  Miss  Forrester  ?  " 

"Don't  I?  It's  too  warm  to  ask  for  anything  or  any 
body  at  an  August  picnic.  Thanks  for  your  reminder. 
How  are  my  mother  and  Miss  Forrester?  " 

There  was  a  certain  defiance  in  the  coolly  insolent  glance 
of  Eric's  blue  eyes,  a  certain  defiance  in  the  lazy  drawl  with 
which  he  repeated  Terry's  words. 

"  They  are  well — wondering  a  little  though  what  can  keep 
you  so  long  in  foreign  parts.  You  were  to  be  back  in  a 
week." 

"  Was  I  ?  I  find  my  constitution  won't  stand  the  wear 
and  tear  of  a  perpetual  express  train.  And  really,  on  the 
whole,  I  think  I  prefer  Lincolnshire  to  Devonshire." 

Then  he  turns  and  says  something  in  a  lower  tone  to 
Crystal,  at  which  she  laughs  nervously,  puts  her  hand  within 
his  arm,  and  turns  to  go. 

"Ta,  ta,  Terry!"  he  says.  "Amuse  yourself  well,  only 
don't  make  your  attentions  to  Elizabeth  Jane  too  maiked, 
else  the  Reverend  Edwin,  lamb-like  as  he  is,  may  turn  jeal 
ous.  And  jealousy  is  a  frightful  monster  to  admit  into  the 
human  heart." 

They  saunter  away  together  as  they  came,  and  Elizabeth 
Jane's  black  eyes  snap  again  as  they  look  after  them. 

"  There  ! "  she  says,  "  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  and  have  some  claret  cup,  if  there  is 
any  going,"  is  Dennison's  response.  "  I  see  Mr.  Meeke 
coming,  'Liza  Jane.  You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you  ?" 

He  hardly  waits  for  'Liza  Jane's  stiff  "  Oh,  certainly."  He 
rushes  off,  takes  a  long  draught  from  the  iced  silver  tankard, 
but  all  the  claret  cup  that  ever  was  iced  will  not  cool  the 
fire  of  love  and  jealousy  that  is  raging  within  Terry.  He 
wanders  away,  he  doesn't  know  where — anywhere,  anywhere 
out  of  the  world.  Presently  he  finds  himself  far  removed 
from  the  braying  brass  band,  and  sight  and  sound  of  the 
pkftttcers,  and  flings  himself  face  downward  in  the  warm 
scented  summer  grass. 


AT  THE  PICNIC. 


I87 


He  has  lost  Crystal ' 

Ay,  lost  her;  though  Eric  should  be  placing  his  ola 
game  of  fast  and  loose  with  girls'  hearts,  wooing  them  thfe 
hour  with  his  charming  grace  and  debonnaire  beauty,  to 
throw  them  away  the  next,  Crystal  is  lost  to  him  all  the 
same.  If  her  heart  has  gone  to  Dynely  or  any  other  man, 
then  she  goes  with  it.  The  heart  that  comes  to  him  for  life 
must  have  held  no  other  lodger.  And  she  loves  Eric — it 
has  ever  been  an  easy  thing  for  all  women  to  do  that — he 
has  seen  it  in  the  first  glance  of  her  eyes,  in  the  first  flush  of 
her  cheek.  And  Eric — what  does  Eric  mean? 

"  By  heaven  !  "  Terry  thinks,  his  eyes  flashing,  "  he  shall 
not  play  with  her,  as  he  has  done  with  so  many.  He  shall 
not  win  her  love  only  to  fling  it  contemptuously  away ;  he 
shall  not  woo  her,  and  tire  of  her,  and  spoil  her  life,  and 
break  her  heart  as  he  has  done  with  others.  I'll  kill  him 
with  my  own  hand  first." 

The  day  wanes,  the  sun  sets-,  the  stars  come  out,  the 
evening  wind  arises.  Terry  gets  up  cold  and  pale,  and 
looking  as  unlike  Terry  as  can  well  be  conceived,  and  re 
turns  to  the  merry-makers.  Dancing  is  going  on  by  the 
white  light  of  the  stars,  in  the  great  canvas  tent,  the  band 
blares  forth  a  German  waltz,  and  little  Crystal  is  floating 
round  and  round  like  a  whiff  of  eider-down  in  Lord  Dynely's 
practised  arms.  He  sees  Terry,  and  smiles  a  curious  sort 
of  smile  to  himself.  If  Terry's  purpose  in  coining  were 
printed  on  his  forehead  it  could  not  be  plainer  reading  to 
Lord  Dynely.  He  has  seen  his  state  from  the  first,  he 
knows  as  well  as  the  dragoon  himself,  that  he  has  come  down 
to  Starling  Vicarage  to  woo  and  win  the  flower  of  the  flock. 
And  Eric's  arm  tightens  around  Crystal's  slim,  pink  waist, 
his  blue  eyes  look  with  an  intolerable  light  of  triumph  down 
into  her  fair,  childish  face. 

"  She  shall  never  belong  to  him — to  any  man.  but  me,"  he 
thinks.  "  I  will  speak  to-night,  or  that  over-grown  dragoon 
will  to-morrow." 

His  fancy  for  Crystal  has  never  cooled,  never  for  a  mo 
ment.  He  loves  her — or  thinks  he  does— with  his  whole 
heart  She  will  not  be  half  so  creditable  a  wife  as  France, 


!88  AT  THE  PICNIC. 

he  feels  that  he  will  tire  of  that  sweet,  shy,  dimpling  baby 
face  a  month  after  marriage  ;  still — have  her  he  must  and 
shall.  Opposition  and  a  rival  have  but  fired  him  ;  come 
what  will,  this  little  village  beauty  shall  be  his  wife.  This 
very  evening  he  will  speak. 

The  waltz  ends ;  he  draws  her  away  with  him,  from  the 
dancing  booth,  out  into  the  white,  star-gemmed  twilight. 
She  is  ever  willing  to  go — to  ends  of  the  earth,  so  that  he 
leads  the  way.  She  has  been  living  in  a  trance  of  bliss  ever 
since  she  saw  Lord  Dynely  first. 

"  Oh,  what  a  day  it  has  been ! "  she  sighs,  swinging  her 
hat  by  its  rosy  ribbons,  and  looking  up  at  the  star-studded 
sky ;  "  I  never  enjoyed  myself  so  much  in  my  life." 

"  Particularly  since  Terry  Dennison  has  come  ! "  puts  in 
his  lordship. 

"Oh,  Lord  Dynely! — Terry!  as  if  I  cared  for  Terry!" 
Crystal  says,  with  a  pretty,  petulant  gesture. 

"  No  ?  You  are  sure,  Crystal  ?  You  don't  care  for 
Terry  ?  " 

"  Lord  Dynely,  you  know  I  don't." 

"Then  you  do  care  for  some  one  else.  Who  is  it,  little 
one  ?  Such  hosts  of  lovers  you  have.  You  don't  know  how 
madly  jealous  I  have  been  before  now." 

She  glances  up  at  him  quickly,  almost  angrily,  to  see  if  he 
is  in  earnest.  Eyes  and  lips  are  smiling — he  is  looking  at 
her  with  a  gaze  she  cannot  meet.  She  flushes  rosy  red  and 
shrinks  from  him  ever  so  little.  Then  all  at  once  he  speaks. 

"I  love  you,  Crystal,"  he  says;  "I  want  you  to  be  my 

wife." 

********* 

It  is  an  hour  later.  The  picnicers  are  beginning  to  dis 
perse.  Lord  Dynely  is  to  drive  Miss  Crystal  home  in  his 
phaeton.  Everybody  is  thronging  to  their  carriages  when 
they  return  to  the  starting  spot. 

What  a  face  Crystal  wears  !  transfigured  with  bliss.     Lord 
Dynely  is,  as  he  ever  is,  cool,  languid,  self-possessed,  and 
ou/;wardly  at  least,  a  trifle  bored.     But  in  the  phaeton,  alone 
Crystal,  he  is  not  in  the  least  bored. 
I  shall  speak  to  the  dear  old  dad  to-morrow,"  he  is  say- 


AT   THE  PICNIC.  189 

ing.  "  Of  course  we  know  what  the  answer  will  be.  And 
I  must  get  you  an  engagement  ring.  Let's  see  ;  give  me 
this  little  blue  and  white  concern  as  a  guide." 

"  Oh  !  "  Crystal  cries,  a  sudden  pain  in  her  voice,  "  Terry 
gave  me  that ! " 

"Did  he?"  said  Dynely,  coolly,  abstracting  it  and  put 
ting  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket ;  "  then  we'll  return  it  to 
Terry,  and  he  can  give  it  to  Victoria,  or  Evangeline,  or  Jo 
sephine,  or  any  of  the  rest  he  fancies.  "You  wear  no  man's 
ring  but  mine  henceforth  forever." 


CHAPTER  XII. 
"THEY  SHALL  TAKE  WHO  HAVE  THE  POWER." 

| HEY  spend  a  very  pleasant  evening  at  the  vicarage 
and  end  a  delightful  day  in  a  very  delightful  man 
ner.  Delightful  at  least  to  Crystal  and  her  lorcll) 
lover.  They  show  little  outward  sign  of  the  rapture 
within  ;  but  Crystal's  eyes  keep  that  radiant  light  of  great 
joy,  and  there  is  a  half  smile  of  exultation  and  triumph  in 
Eric's.  They  drink  tea  out  of  their  egg-shell  china,  and  par 
take  of  lemon  cakes  and  thin  bread  and  butter,  and  Crystal 
trips  down  to  the  gate,  by  her  lover's  side. 

"  I  will  be  here  to-morrow  as  early  as  common  decency 
will  allow,  little  one,"  he  says,  taking  the  pretty  dimpled  face 
between  both  his  hands,  "for  that  private  interview  with 
papa.  Good-night,  'queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of 
girls,'  and  dream  of  me." 

Will  she  not  ?  She  watches  him  out  of  sight.  How 
handsome  he  is  !  A  very  king  among  men  !  How  noble, 
how  great,  how  good  !  So  far  above  her,  yet  stooping  in  his 
wonderful  condescension  to  love  her  and  make  her  his  wife. 
Oh,  what  a  thrice-blessed  girl  she  is  !  Surely  some  benefi 
cent  fairy  must  have  presided  at  her  birth  that  she  should  be 
thus  chosen  the  elect  of  the  gods. 

Then  she  is  aroused  from  her  reverie,  for  the  Rev.  Edwin 
and  Elizabeth  Jane  are  crunching  over  the  gravel  behind  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  mooning  here  all  night,  (srystal?" 
sharply  inquires  the  elder  sister.  "  Do  you  know  that  the 
dew  is  falling,  and  that  your  dress  is  grenadine  ?  Where  is 
he  ?  " 

"  Lord  Dynely  has  gone,"  Crystal  answers,  gently. 
"  Good-night,  Mr.  Meeke,"  and  then  she  lifts  two  lovely, 
compassionate  eyes  to  Mr.  Meeke's  face. 


THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER.      191 

Poor  little  fellow,  she  thinks,  what  a  life  Elizabeth  Jane 
will  lead  him,  and  how  different  her  life  is  ordered  from 
poor,  plain  Elizabeth  Jane's.  She  feels  a  great  pity  for  them 
both,  so  hum-drum  and  commonplace  their  wooing  is  ;  a 
great  pity  for  the  whole  other  eight,  so  far  less  blessed  than  she. 

"  What  have  I  ever  done  that  1  should  be  so  happy  ?  " 
she  muses.  "  What  can  I  ever  do  to  prove  how  thankful 
and  grateful  I  am  ?" 

She  stops  and  recoils,  a  swift  flush  of  pain  and  shame 
darkens  her  lily-leaf  face,  for,  tall  and  dark,  Terry  looms  up 
before  her. 

"  I've  had  no  chance  to  say  a  word  to  you  all  day,  Crys 
tal,"  he  says,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully.  "  You  have  been 
so  completely  monopolized  by  Dynely.  It  is  a  lovely 
night — let  us  take  a  turn  around  the  garden  ?  " 

»  What— at  twelve  o'clock  ?  Oh,  Terry  ! "  she  laughs, 
"I  am  dead  tired  besides  after  the  picnic.  Some  other 
time.  Good-night." 

She  flies  up  the  stairs  lightly,  a  small  roseate  vision,  kisses 
her  hand  to  him  from  the  upper  landing,  and  disappears. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Higgins'  nine  daughters  are  paired  off  two 
by  two.  It  is  Crystal's  misfortune  to  be  billeted  with 
Elizabeth  Jane.  And  when  Elizabeth  Jane  comes  up, 
half  an  hour  later,  and  finds  her  "  mooning"  again,  sitting, 
leaning  out  of  the  window,  heedless  of  dew  and  grenadine, 
the  window  is  closed  with  asperity,  and  Miss  Crystal  ordered 
peremptorily  to  "  have  done  fooling  and  go  to  bed." 

She  goes,  she  even  sleeps,  but  she  wakes  early,  to  find 
the  sun  of  another  lovely  day  flooding  her  chamber,  and  a 
hundred  little  birds  trilling  a  musical  accompaniment  with 
out,  to  Elizabeth  Jane's  short,  rasping  snores  within.  Again 
Crystal  thinks  of  the  Rev.  Edwin,  and  laughs  and  shudders 
as  she  looks  at  Elizabeth  Jane  asleep,  with  her  mouth  open, 
and  pities  him  with  unutterable  pity.  Yesterday's  bliss 
comes  back  to  her  as  she  springs  lightly  out  of  bed  and 
dresses.  To-day  he  is  coming  to  ask  papa — in  two  or  three 
hours  at  most  he  will  be  here.  She  sings  softly  as  she 
dresses,  for  very  gladness  of  heart,  and  flies  lightly  down  the 
stairs,  and  out  into  the  fresh,  sweet  sunnier  morning. 


192 


THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER. 


All  within  is  still  and  asleep,  all  without  is  awake  and 
full  of  jubilant  life.  The  roses  turn  their  crimson,  pink  and 
snowy  faces  up  to  that  cloudless  sky,  a  hundred  choirs  of 
birds  pour  forth  their  matin  song ;  over  all  the  sun  rises  in 
untold  Summer  splendor.  Involuntarily  Mendelssohn's 
Hymn  of  Praise  rises  to  her  lips — "Let  all  that  hath  life 
and  breath  sing  to  the  Lord." 

She  runs  down  to  the  gate  and  leans  over  it,  still  singing. 
Her  song  reaches  another  early  riser,  lounging  aimlessly 
against  an  elm  near  by,  smoking  a  matinal  cigar.  He  starts, 
flings  the  cigar  away,  and  crashes  through  the  dewy  Lincoln 
shire  grass  to  join  her.  It  is  Terry.  Who  else  in  that  house 
hold  of  women  smokes  regalias  at  five  in  the  morning  ?" 

Terry  has  not  slept  well — has  not  slept  at  all — and  looks 
haggard  and  anxious  in  this  brilliant  morning  light.  He 
pulls  his  straw  hat  farther  over  his  eyes  to  exclude  the  daz 
zling  sun,  and  sees  Crystal's  sweet  face  cloud,  and  hears  her 
glad  song  die  away  as  he  joins  her.  A  nervous,  troubled 
look  fills  the  gentle  eyes,  the  loveliest,  he  thinks,  on  earth. 

"  You  were  always  an  early  riser,  Crystal,"  he  says,  with 
a  faint  smile.  "  I  see  you  keep  up  your  good  habits.  I  hope 
you  have  quite  slept  away  yesterday's  fatigue." 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  replies  Miss  Crystal.  "  I  hope  your 
dreams  were  pleasant,  Terry  ?  " 

"  I  neither  slept  nor  dreamed  at  all,"  Terry  answers, 
gravely. 

She  glances  up  at  him  shyly,  then  turns  away  and  begins 
pulling  nervously  at  the  sweetbrier  growing  over  the  gate. 
He  takes  one  of  the  little  destructive  hands  and  holds  it 
fast,  and  looks  at  the  finger  upon  which  he  had  placed  the 
pearl  and  turquoise  ring.  "  It  is  gone."  he  says,  blankly. 

She  snatches  her  hand  away,  half- frightened,  half-petulant, 
and  says  nothing. 

"  You  promised  to  wear  it,  Crystal." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Terry,  I  did  not.  You  put  it  there, 
and  I  wore  it  until — " 

"  Until— go  on,  Crystal."  - 

But  she  will  not,  it  seems.  She  turns  farther  from  him 
and  tears  the  sweetbrier  sprays  wantonly. 


THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER. 

"  Until  when.  Crystal  ?     Answer  me." 

"  Until  last  night,  then." 

"  And  what  became  of  it  last  night  ?  " 

He  tries  to  see  her  face,  but  she  holds  it  low  over  the  fra 
grant  blossoms,  and  is  silent  again. 

"  Crystal !  Crystal ! "  he  cries  out ;  "  what  does  it  all 
mean  ?  Who  removed  my  ring  ?  " 

Then  all  at  once  she  turns  at  bay  and  looks  at  him 
full. 

"Lord  Dynely  took  it  last  night.  He  had  a  right  to  take 
it.  I  can  wear  no  man's  ring  but  his  all  the  days  of  my 
life.  I  will  give  it  to  you  back  to-day.  I — I  don't  want  to 
hurt  you,  Terry,  but — I  love  him" 

Her  courage  dies  away  as  quickly  as  it  came.  She  grows 
crimson  all  over  her  pearl-white  face,  and  returns  once  more 
to  the  suffering  sweetbrier. 

For  Terry — he  stands  as  a  man  who  receives  his  death 
blow — white,  mute.  And  yet  he  has  expected  it — has 
known  it.  Only  that  does  not  seem  to  make  it  any  the 
easier  now. 

The  silence  frightens  her.  She  steals  a  look  at  him,  and 
that  look  frightens  her  more. 

"  Oh,  Terry,  don't  be  angry,"  she  falters,  the  ready  tears 
springing  to  her  eyes.  "  How  could  I  help  it  ?  How  could 
I — how  could  any  one  help  loving  him  ?  " 

"  No."  Terry  answers,  a  curious  stiffness  about  his  lips,  a 
curious  hardness  in  his  tone;  "you  could  not  help  it.  I 
might  have  known  it.  You  are  only  a  child — I  thought  you 
a  woman.  You  could  not  help  it ;  but  he — by  Heaven,  he's 
a  villain  ! " 

She  started  up — stung  into  strength  by  that. 

"It  is  false  !  "  she  cried  out,  passionately.  "  How  dare 
you,  Terry  Dennison  !  You  say  to  me  behind  his  back  what 
you  dare  not  say  to  his  face.  He  is  the  best  and  noblest 
man  that  ever  lived." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  He  caught  both  her  hands, 
and  the  blue  eyes  looked  up  fearless  and  flashing  into  his 
own. 

"You  love  him,  Crystal?" 
9 


194     THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE   POWER. 

"  With  my  Avhole  heart — so  well  that  if  I  lost  him  I  should 
die." 

"  And  he — he  tells  you  he  loves  you,  I  suppose?  " 

"  He  tells  me,  and  I  know  it.  I  know  it  as  surely  and 
truly  as  I  stand  here." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  turned  from  her,  leaning  his 
folded  arms  across  the  pillar  of  the  gate. 

"  He  tells  you,  and  you  know  it  !  I  wonder  how  many 
score  my  Lord  Dynely  has  told  that  same  story  to  in  his 
one-and-twenty  years  of  life?  We  live  in  a  fast  age,  but  I 
doubt  if  many  men  go  quite  so  fast  as  that.  I  wonder  what 
France  Foirester  will  say  to  all  this?  " 

The  angry  color  faded  out  of  her  face,  the  angry  light 
died  out  of  her  eyes.  She  stood  looking  at  him,  growing 
ashen  gray.  She  had  utterly  forgotten  that. 

"  Miss  Forrester  !  "  she  responded,  slowly  ;  "  I  forgot !  I 
forgot  !  And  last  night  he  told  me — he  told  me " 

"  He  told  you  nothing  about  her,  I'll  swear  1  "  Dennison 
said,  with  a  short,  mirthless  laugh  :  "  that  it  has  been  an  un 
derstood  thing  from  his  boyhood  that  he  was  to  marry  her  ; 
that  he  returned  home  three  weeks  ago  to  ask  her  to  be  his 
wife  ;  that  he  did  ask  her,  beg  her,  entreat  her,  and  that 
she  sent  him  down  here  out  of  the  way,  pending  her  final 
answer  ;  that  it  that  answer  be  favorable  they  are  to  be  mar 
ried  next  spring  in  London.  His  mother  told  me.  What 
ever  he  told  you  last  night,  Crystal,  I  am  quite  sure  he  did 
not  tell  you  this." 

"No,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  like  a  whisper,  her  very  lips 
blanched — "  he  did  not  tell  me  this." 

"  There  is  one  fortunate  circumstance  about  it,"  the 
young  man  went  on;  "he  is  a  villain,  but  he  won't  break 
her  heart.  Incredible  it  may  seem  to  you,  but  all  the  beauty 
and  attraction  of  your  demi-god  are  quite  thrown  away  upon 
her.  She  doesn't  care  for  him.  She  knows  him  to  be 
weaker  and  more  unstable  than  water — the  frailest  of  all 
broken  reed;  for  any  woman  to  lean  on — and  will  rejoice  ac 
cordingly  at  being  rid  of  him.  But  for  yon,  Crystal—you're 
not  the  first,  nor  the  hundred-and-rirst,  he  has  sworn  undy 
ing  Jove  to  ;  and  you'll  not  be  the  last,  that  /swear,  if  you 


THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER.      I95 

give  him  a  chance.  If  you  care  for  Lord  Eric  Dynely,  and 
want  to  keep  him,  why,  then,  marry  him  out  of  hand — 
strike  while  the  iron  is  hot." 

She  said  not  a  word.  White  and  still  she  stood,  all  life 
and  color  stricken  out  of  eyes  and  face  by  his  words. 

As  he  looked  at  her  the  bitterness  died  out  of  his  own 
soul  in  compassion  and  remorse. 

"  Oh,  Crystal,  forgive  me  !  "  he  said.  "  I- am  a  brute  !  I 
ought  not  to  say  such  things  to  you.  But — I  loved  you  so 
— I  have  loved  you  all  my  life.  I  trusted  you,  and  I  trusted 
him." 

It  was  more  than  she  could  bear — her  own  pain  and  his. 
She  turned  hastily  away,  down  one  of  the  garden  paths,  and 
vanished. 

The  day  was  six  hours  older — the  vicarage  clocks  were 
striking  eleven — as  Lord  Dynely  dismounted  from  "  his  red 
roan  steed"  at  the  vicarage  gate,  and  flung  his  horse's  bridle 
over  that  very  gate-post.  Before  he  could  reach  the  house, 
a  slim,  white  figure  came  gliding  out  of  one  of  the  garden 
paths  and  beckoned  him  to  approach. 

"  You,  my  darling,"  he  said,  gayly,  uand  on  the  watch  for 
your  devoted  knight's  coming.  I'm  not  late,  am  I  ?  But 
early  rising,  as  you  understand  the  term  in  this  primitive 
wilderness,  is  not  my  most  prominent  perfection." 

"  Eric,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you.  Last  night  when  we  were  talking — when  you  told 
me  you  cared  for  me,  you — you  said  nothing  of  Miss 
Forrester." 

His  face  flushed,  his  blue  eyes  flashed  with  the  quick 
angry  light  ever  so  ready  to  rise. 

"  Who  has  been  talking  to  you  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  But  I 
need  hardly  ask.  Mr.  Terrence  Dennison,  of  course." 

"I  have  known  it  this  long  time,"  she  returned,  shrinking 
from  his  angry  looks,  trembling  like  a  nervous  child,  yet 
resolute  to  go  on,  "  only  1  forgot  it  yesterday.  Oh,  Lord 
Dynely  !  You  were  very  cruel  to  say  such  things  to  me, 
and  all  the  time  engaged  to  marry  her." 

She  broke  down  utterly  for  the  first  time  with  the  words, 
and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  sobbed  hysterically. 


THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER. 

"  Why  did  you  ever  come  here — why  did  you  make  me 
love  you — how  could  you  deceive  me  so  ?  I  knew  I  was 
not  worthy  of  you.  I  was  happy  before  you  came ; 
I—" 

"You  would  have  married  Dennison,  and  lived  happy 
for  ever  after  ?  Is  that  what  you  are  trying  to  say,  Miss 
Higgins  ?  Terry  has  been  pleading  his  own  cause  this  morn 
ing,  I  see,  and  slandering  me.  Common  gratitude  from  the 
dependant  of  my  mother's  bounty  might  have  kept  him 
silent,  if  nothing  else  ;  but  gratitude  is  an  obsolete  virtue. 
Since  you  are  so  easily  influenced  by  him,  it  would  be  a  pity 
to  take  you  from  him.  Here  is  his  ring — let  me  replace  it 
on  your  finger,  and  take  back  all  the  nonsensical  things  I 
said  to  you  last  evening." 

She  uttered  a  cry  like  a  child  under  the  lash.  At  that 
sound  all  anger  died  out  within  him,  he  caught  her  hands 
and  held  them  in  a  fierce,  close  clasp. 

"  I  will  never  let  you  go,"  he  said.  "  I  swear  it.  My 
wife  you  shall  be,  and  no  other's.  You  are  mine — luine 
alone,  and  as  mine  I  claim  you.  I  deny  all  Dennison's 
slanders.  I  am  not  engaged  to  Miss  Forrester  or  any  other 
living  woman.  Miss  Forrester  is  no  more  anxious  to  marry 
me  than  I  am  to  marry  her.  It  is  all  my  mother's  doing 
and  her  guardian's — they  made  the  compact,  but  we  will  not 
ratify  it.  You  I  love,  and  you  I  will  make  my  wife.  Where 
is  your  father  ? — in  his  study  ?  Then  I  will  go  to  him  at 
once,  and  make  an  end  of  all  doubt." 

He  strode  away,  and,  looking  handsome  and  haughty,  was 
admitted  into  Mr.  Higgins'  private  sanctum.  In  few  and 
somewhat  insolently  authoritative  words  he  made  known  his 
errand.  He  loved  his  daughter  Crystal,  he  wished  to  make 
her  his  wife.  Then  he  sat  still,  and  looked  at  the 
clergyman.  If  he  expected  the  Vicar  of  Starling  to  be 
overpowered  by  the  honor  he  was  doing  him,  he  was 
mistaken. 

Mr.  Higgins  sat  aghast,  literally  aghast,  and  pushing  his 
spectacles  up  his  forehead  sat  helplessly  staring  at  the  young 
wooer. 


THE Y  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER,      igj 

"  My  daughter  !  My  daughter  Crystal.  You  want  tc 
marry  her,  Lord  Dynely.  Oh,  impossible  !  impossible  !  " 

"  And  why  impossible,  sir,  may  I  ask  ? "  haughtily  and 
angrily. 

"  Because — Lord  bless  my  soul  !  because  she's  too  young 
to  marry  any  one  ;  because  when  she's  two  or  three  years 
older  we're  going  to  marry  her  to  Terry  Dennison.  It's 
been  an  understood  thing  always,  always,  that  Christabel 
was  to  marry  Terry." 

"  And  may  I  ask  again,  Mr.  Higgins,"  cried  Lord  Dynely, 
still  more  angrily,  still  more  haughtily,  "  if  you  prefer 
Dennison  to  me  ?  " 

"  Well — well — well,  don't  be  angry,  my  dear  young  gentle 
man,  don't  be  angry.  Bless  my  soul  !  you  marry  Crystal ! 
Upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing 
— never  !  Prefer  Dennison  !  well,  in  a  worldly  point  of 
view,  you're  the  best  match  of  course,  but,  then,  we  know 
Terry,  and  he's  one  of  the  family,  and  he's  a  good  lad — oh, 
a  very  good  lad  !  and  I  shouldn't  be  afraid  to  trust  my  little 
one  to  his  keeping." 

"  And  you  are  afraid  to  trust  her  to  mine  !  "  said  lordly 
Eric,  pale  with  passion. 

"  No,  no,  not  that  either !  Bless  my  soul,  don't  be  so 
quick  to  jump  at  conclusions.  It's  only  this — I  know  him 
better  than  I  do  you — I  trust  him  entirely,  and  then  it's  been 
an  understood  thing  always.  Crissy  has  no  right  to  play  fast 
and  loose  with  Terry.  Besides,  there's  your  cousin — no, 
she's  not  your  cousin,  I  suppose,  but  it's  all  the  same.  I 
mean,  of  course,  Miss  France  Forrester." 

"  Well,  sir,"  demands  the  exasperated  young  lord,  "  and 
what  of  Miss  France  Forrester?" 

"Why,  this — you've  been  engaged  to  her,  or  so  I  have 
been  told." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Higgins,  you've  been  told  an  infernal  lie," 
retorted  Lord  Dynely,  too  utterly  overcome  with  rage  and 
exasperation  to  much  mind  what  he  said ;  "  I  never  was  en 
gaged  to  France  Forrester  or  any  one  else.  Am  1  to  un 
derstand  that  you  decline  to  accept  me  as  the  husband  of 
your  daughter  ?  " 


THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER. 

"Oh,  dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Higgins,  in  a  troubled  tone,  "I 
don't  know  what  to  say,  I'm  sure.  You've  taken  me  so 
much  by  surprise — I  always  looked  upon  her  as  belonging 
to  Terry—" 

This  was  growing  more  than  Lord  Dynely  could  bear.  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  exasperated  beyond  endurance. 

"  Oh,  don't,"  said  the  vicar,  piteously  ;  "  wait  a  little,  my 
lord.  What  does  Christabel  say  ?  She  is  in  love  with  you, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  She  does  me  that  honor,  Mr.  Higgins." 

"  It's  a  brilliant  match  for  her,  and  yet,"  in  that  troubled 
tone,  "  I  do  believe  she  would  be  happier  .married  to " 

"  Mr.  Higgins,  you  insult  me  !  I  decline  to  listen  longer. 
Good-morning." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lord  Dynely.  I  had  no  intention 
of  insulting  you,  I  am  sure.  If  Crystal  wishes  it,  and  you 
wish  it,  why  then — why  then  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Only 
this,  obtain  your  mother's  consent.  No  daughter  of  mine 
shall  enter  any  family  that  considers  her  beneath  them  or  is 
unwilling  to  receive  her.  Obtain  your  mother's  consent  and 
you  shall  have  mine.  Only" — this  in  a  low  voice  and  with 
a  sorrowful  shake  of  the  head — "  I  would  rather  it  had  been 
Terry." 

Lord  Dynely,  quite  pale  with  haughty  surprise  and  anger, 
bowed  himself  out.  Opposition  was  crowding  upon  him, 
and  he  set  his  teeth,  and  swore  he  would  have  her  in  spite 
of  a  thousand  imbecile  vicars,  a  thousand  match-making 
mothers.  And  Mr.  Higgins  sat  blinking  in  a  dazed  way  in 
the  sunshine,  full  of  vague,  apprehensive  regrets. 

"  He's  a  fine  young  man — a  handsome  young  man,  well 
born,  well-bred,  titled  and  rich  ;  and  yet  I  am  afraid  of  him. 
It's  these  brilliant  young  men  who  break  their  wives'  hearts 
as  easily  as  I  could  my  pipe-stem.  It  will  be  a  great  match 
for  one  of  my  girls,  but  I  would  rather  it  were  Terry." 

Leaning  against  the  vine-clad  porch,  Lord  Dynely  came 
face  to  face  with  Terry  himself.  He  paused  and  looked  at 
him,  his  blue  eyes  lurid  with  anger  and  defiance. 

"  Well,  little  'un,"  he  said,  with  an  insolent  laugh,  "  you've 
heard  the  news,  I  suppose  ?  I'm  to  marry  Crystal.  Con- 


THEY  SHALL    TAKE    WHO  HAVE  POWER, 

gratulate  me,  won't  you  ?  I've  been  rather  poaching  on  your 
manor,  you  see  ;  but,  if  the  dear  little  girl  has  the  bad  taste 
to  prefer  me  to  you,  what  then  ?  And  all's  fair  in  love  and 
war." 

He  turned  to  go  before  Dennison  could  speak,  that 
defiant  ring  still  in  eyes,  and  voice,  and  laugh. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  I'll  find  her,  Terry  ?  Ah,  I  see 
her  in  the  arbor  yonder.  Don't  look  so  seedy,  dear  old 
man — you  know  the  adage  that  has  held  good  ever  since  the 
world  began,  that — 

"  They  shall  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  shall  keep  who  can." 

His  mocking  laugh  came  back  as  he  struck  a  Vesuvian, 
lit  a  cigarette,  and  sauntered  down  the  path  to  join  Crystal. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LIJHTLY   WON,    LIGHTLY    LOST. 
1ORTON?" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Pack  my  portmanteau,   and  hold  yomself  in 
readiness  to  accompany  me  by  the  9:50  train.     I 
return  to  Devonshire." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

"Tell  them  to  have  the  trap  round  in  fifteen  minutes. 
Train  starts  in  half  an  hour.  Can  do  the  distance  in  the 
odd  quarter." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"  Hand  me  that  tobacco  pouch,  Norton,  that  book  of 
cigarette  paper,  and Come  in." 

All  this  multiplicity  of  directions  Lord  Dynely  murmured 
in  the  sleepiest,  laziest  of  tones,  his  long,  slender  length 
stretched  out  upon  a  sofa.  His  orders  had  been  cut  short 
by  a  tap  at  the  door,  and,  in  answer  to  his  invitation,  Terry 
Dennison  entered. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  of  the  morning  following  that  inter 
view  in  the  Vicar  of  Starling's  study.  Only  nine  o'clock, 
and  Lord  Dynely,  whose  usual  hour  of  rising  and  calling  for 
chocolate  in  bed  was  twelve,  was  up  and  dressed.  Not.  only 
dressed,  but  dressed  for  travelling,  in  most  unexceptional  get 
up.  He  was,  as  has  been  said,  a  dandy  of  the  first  water,  as 
difficult  to  please  in  the  fit  of  a  coat  as  any  young  duchess 
about  her  wedding  robe.  He  found  fault  with  Poole's  most 
faultless  works  of  art,  and  the  peculiar  shade  of  necktie  most 
becoming  his  complexion  had  been  known  to  painfully  exer 
cise  his  manly  mind  for  hours. 

As  he  lay  now,  every  garment  he  wore,  in  make,  and  col 
oring,  and  texture,  was  above  reproach.  To  do  him  justice, 


LIGHTLY  WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST.  2OI 

his  efforts  were  not  in  vain,  his  dress  always  looked  as  though 
it  were  a  part  of  himself. 

He  looked  up  gayly  at  Dennison's  approach.  He  was  in 
high  good  humor  this  morning — at  peace  with  all  the  world. 
Yesterday's  irritation  had  entirely  passed  away.  Crystal's 
father  might  be  exasperating  to  the  last  degree,  but  Crystal 
herself  was  entirely  satisfactory.  And  when  Crystal  was  his 
wife  be  would  take  care  the  Vicar  of  Starling  and  his  family 
saw  uncommonly  little  of  her.  For  Terry — well,  looking  at 
it  dispassionately,  after  an  excellent  dinner  and  a  prime  Ma 
nilla,  he  was  forced  to  admit  that  Terry,  poor  beggar  !  had 
some  little  cause  of  complaint.  Something  very  like  foul  play 
had  been  done  on  his  part,  something  the  codes  of  his  order 
and  his  honor  would  hardly  recognize.  Still,  what  was  done, 
was  done.  Crystal  he  would  resign  to  no  man  living,  and 
Dennison  must  make  the  best  of  it.  This  unexpected  oppo 
sition  had  but  strengthened  his  passion  ;  he  had  never  been 
so  thoroughly  in  earnest  before  about  any  love  affair  in  his 
life.  He  was  going  to  see  his  mother  to-day  and  bring  her 
to  reason.  She  would  prove  a  little  restive  on  his  hands  at 
first,  on  France's  account,  but  he  would  speedily  bring  her 
around.  For  France — well,  he  winced  a  little  at  the  thought 
of  meeting  France.  To  be  laughed  at  was  horrible,  and  he 
could  see  France's  dark,  mischievous,  satirical  eyes,  France's 
cynical  little  laugh,  hear  France's  sarcastic,  cutting  speeches. 
"Who  was  she?"  indeed.  The  girl  must  be  a  witch.  Your 
sharp  girl,  your  clever  girl,  was  an  outrage  on  nature.  Women 
were  made  for  man's  use,  benefit  and  pleasure  ;  why,  then, 
were  half  of  them  as  man  didn't  like  them?  Crystal,  with 
out  two  ideas  in  her  pretty  head  and  loving  heart,  was  his 
ideal  of  womankind.  Yes,  he  would  bring  his  mother  round, 
fetch  her  down  here  to  see  Crystal,  have  the  marriage  ar 
ranged  to  take  place  before  Christmas,  all  on  the  quiet,  and 
spend  the  Winter  rambling  about  sunny  Italy.  And  next 
season  Lady  Dynely  would  burst  upon  London  the  loveliest 
thing  out,  a  pride  to  her  husband,  an  honor  and  credit  to  his 
*3ste. 

All  this  in  rambling,  disconnected,  self-satisfied  fashion, 
Lord  Dynely  had  thought  over  last  night.  Now  he  lay  rolling 
6* 


202  LIGHTLY   WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST. 

up  a  cigarette,  with  white,  practised  fingers,  a  smile  on  his 
lips  and  in  his  handsome  blue  eyes  as  he  looked  up  at  Mr. 
Dennison. 

"  How  are  you,  Terry?"  he  said,  genially.  "  Come  in  ; 
knock  those  things  off  the  chair,  and  sit  down.  I'm  in  the 
midst  of  an  exodus,  you  see — off  to  Devonshire.  Any 
commission  for  France  or  the  rnadre  ?  " 

"  I  will  send  a  note  by  you  to  Lady  Dynely,"  Terry  an 
swered.  He  was  looking  very  grave,  and  rather  pale,  Eric 
could  see  at  second  glance,  his  mouth  set  and  stern  under 
his  tawny  beard  and  mustache.  "  It  may  be  some  time 
before  I  see  her  in  person.  I  join  my  regiment  this  week 
at  Windsor." 

"  Ah !  leave  of  absence  expired  ?  Be  off,  Norton,  and 
order  round  the  trap.  Only  ten  minutes  to  starting  time 
now.  Very  inhospitable  of  me,  Terry — you  don't  pay  morn 
ing  calls  at  Carruthers  Court  often — but  I  really  must  cut  it 
short.  Twenty-five  minutes  to  starting  time,  and  you  know 
what  the  drive  to  the  station  is." 

"  I  won't  detain  you,"  Terry  answers,  setting  his  lips  still 
harder  under  his  leonine  beard.  "  I  came  to  say  a  few 
words  about  Crystal." 

Lord  Dynely' s  cigarette  was  quite  ready  now.  He  looked 
up  at  his  companion  with  that  slow,  indolent  smile  of  his  that 
had  so  much  of  latent  insolence  in  it,  struck  a  fuse  and  lit  up. 

"About  Crystal?  Let  us  hear  it,  Terry.  You  couldn't 
choose  a  more  interesting  subject.  How  is  the  little  darling 
this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  won't  say  anything  about  your  conduct  in  this  matter, 
Lord  Dynely,"  Terry  began  ;  "  you  know  best  whether  it 
has  been  the  conduct  of  a  man  of  honor  or  not.  Crystal, 
perhaps,  is  not  to  blame." 

"  How  magnanimous  !  '  Crystal  is  not  to  blame.'  You 
have  never  asked  her  to  marry  you,  and  because  she  honors 
me  by  her  preference  and  acceptance,  she  is  not  to  blame. 
And  don't  you  think — as  her  friend,  now,  Terry — she  makes 
A  rather  better  match  in  marrying  Lord  Dynely  than  she 
would  in  marrying  Terry  Dennison  ?  " 

That  angry  gleam  was  lighting  again  Eric's  sleepy  eyes, 


LIGHTLY   WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST.  2O3 

but  his  soft,  slow  tones  never  rose  as  he  spoke.  He  watched 
Terry  from  behind  the  wreaths  of  scented  smoke,  and  saw 
the  flush  that  arose  and  overspread  his  whole  face. 

"  Yes,"  Terry  answered,  after  a  pause,  in  a  slow,  strange 
voice,  "  you  are  right ;  she  makes  a  better  match  in  marry 
ing  Lord  Dynely  than  in  marrying  Terry  Dennison.  As  I 
had  never,  in  so  many  words,  asked  her  to  be  my  wife, 
whatever  may  have  been  understood,  I  repeat  I  hold  her 
blameless  in  this.  She  loves  you — she  never  did  me.  I 
might  have  foreseen,  but — I  trusted  you  both." 

"  Don't  seem  to  see  it,"  Lord  Dynely  drawled,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "  Only  seven  minutes,  Mr.  Dennison ;  very 
sorry  to  cut  it  short,  I  repeat,  but — " 

"  But  you  shall  hear  what  I  have  come  to  say,"  Terry  ex 
claimed,  turning  upon  him.  "  It  is  this  :  I  know  how  you 
hold  women — I  know  how  it  is  you  have  treated  them — I 
know  you  hold  it  fair  sport  to  win  hearts  and  fling  them 
away.  What  1  have  come  to  say  is — don't  do  it  here.  She 
has  no  brother  or  father  capable  of  protecting  her.  I  will 
be  her  brother,  if  I  may  be  no  more.  For  your  mother's 
sake,  you  are  the  last  man  on  earth  I  would  wish  to  raise 
my  hand  against,  but  this  I  say,  this  I  mean — if  you  trifle 
wiih  Crystal  as  you  have  trifled  with  others,  Eric,  you  shall 
answer  to  me  ! " 

He  brought  his  clenched  hand  down  upon  the  inlaid 
table,  the  veins  of  his  forehead  swollen  and  dark,  with  the 
intensity  of  feeling  within  him.  Lord  Dynely  laughed  softly, 
and  flung  his  cigarette  out  through  the  open  window. 

"  Bon  !  But  would  it  not  be  well  to  intimate  as  much 
quietly.  You  do  it  very  well,  my  dear  boy,  for  an  amateur ; 
but  one  gets  so  much  of  that  kind  of  thing  at  the  theatre, 
and  they  do  it  better  there.  You  mean  well,  I  dare  say — 
sentiments  do  you  honor,  and  all  that ;  but  this  tremendous 
earnestness  is  in  such  deuced  bad  form — in  August,  of  all 
months,  particularly." 

"  I  have  said  my  say,"  was  Dennison's  response.  "  It  is 
part  of  your  creed,  I  know,  to  make  a  jest  of  all  things  ;  jest 
if  you  like,  but  hear  and  remember.  As  surely  as  we  both 
stand  here — if  there  is  any  foul  play  in  this  business,  your 


2O4  LIGHTLY    WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST. 

life  shall  answer  it.  You  shall  not  play  with  her,  fool  hel 
and  leave  her,  as  you  have  done  with  so  many.  You  shall 
not  break  her  heart,  and  go  unpunished  of  God  and  man. 
If  all  is  not  open  and  above  board  here,  you  shall  pay  the 
penalty — that  I  swear." 

"  Time's  up,"  said  Eric,  looking  at  his  watch  again.  He 
replaced  it,  arose  to  his  feet,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Terry's 
shoulder,  with  that  winning  smile  of  his  that  made  his  face 
so  charming. 

"  Look  here,  Terry,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  such  a  scoundrel, 
such  a  Lovelace,  such  a  Don  Giovanni,  as  you  try  to  make 
me  out.  I'm  ready  to  go  with  little  Crystal  to  the  St. 
George's  slaughter-house,  or  the  little  church  down  among 
the  trees  yonder,  this  very  morning  if  I  might.  You're  a 
good  fellow,  and,  as  I  said  before,  your  sentiments  do  you 
honor,  and  so  on.  You  feel  a  little  sore  about  this  business, 
naturally — I  would  myself,  in  your  place  ;  but  all's  right  and 
on  the  square  here.  I  never  was  in  earnest  before — I  am 
now.  I'm  going  up  for  my  mother — she  must  come  here 
and  receive  Crystal  as  her  daughter.  And  when  the  wed 
ding  comes  off,  you  shall  be  the  best  man,  'an'  ye  will,' 
Terry — that  /swear,  since  swearing  seems  the  order  of  the 
day.  And  now,  dear  old  man,  don't  lecture  any  more;  it's 
too  hot — give  you  my  word  it  is,  and  I  want  to  reserve  all 
my  strength  for  the  journey.  Here's  seltzer  and  sherry. 
Compose  your  feelings  with  that  liquid  refreshment,  and  dash 
off  your  note  to  the  madre  while  I  get  into  my  outer  gar 
ments." 

There  was  no  resisting  Eric  in  this  mood,  it  was  not  in 
human  nature.  The  charming  smile,  the  charming  voice, 
the  affectionate,  frankly  cordial  manner,  would  have  moved 
and  melted  a  Medusa. 

"  No,  Crystal  was  not  to  blame,"  Terry  thought,  with  a 
sigh,  glancing  over  at  their  two  images  in  the  glass — it  was 
in  the  nature  of  things  that  women  should  fall  in  love  at 
sight  with  Eric. 

He  scrawled  off  the  note  in  a  big,  slap-dash  sort  of  hand, 
each  long  word  filling  a  whole  line  ;  folded,  sealed  it,  and 
gave  it  to  Eric  just  as  he  sprang  up  into  the  trap. 


LIGHTLY  WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST.  205 

"  Bye-bye,  old  boy,"  he  said,  gayly.  "  When  shall  I  tell  the 
madre  to  expect  you  ?  Not  before  Christmas  ?  Oh,  non 
sense  !  She  couldn't  survive  without  you  half  the  time. 
Well,  as  you  won't  be  here  when  I  return,  adieu  and  au  re- 
voir.  Love  to  everybody." 

The  groom   touched  the  horses.     They  sped  down  the 

avenue  like  the  wind,  and  Terry  was  alone. 
*********** 

"  It  is  very  odd  we  don't  hear  from  Eric — that  he  doesn't 
return.  I  can't  understand  it  at  all.  It  is  three  weeks 
since  he  left ;  he  was  to  be  back  in  one.  There's  some 
thing  very  singular  about  it,  to  say  the  least." 

Thus  petulantly  Lady  Dynely  to  Miss  Forrester.  They 
were  together  in  the  drawing-room — her  ladyship  reclining 
upon  a  sofa,  a  book  in  her  hand.  Miss  Forrester  looking 
charming  in  palest  amber  tissue  and  white  roses,  lying  back 
in  a  vast  downy  arm-chair  before  the  open  window,  putting 
the  finishing  touches  to  a  small  sketch. 

"  The  house  is  like  a  tomb  since  he  and  Terry  left.  It  is 
most  incomprehensible  indeed,  Eric's  staying  all  this  time. 
If  you  understand  it,  France,  and  feel  satisfied,  it  is  more 
than  I  do.  My  dear  child,  do  put  down  that  tiresome  draw 
ing  and  listen.  Ever  since  Mr.  Locksley's  advent,  1  believe 
you  have  given  yourself  wholly  to  art." 

The  color  rose  in  Miss  Forrester's  clear,  dark  face.  She 
looked  up  from  her  drawing  at  once. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Dynely.  What  was  it  you 
said?" 

"About  Eric.  It's  three  weeks  since  he  went  away — he 
was  to  be  back  in  one.  And  he  never  writes  to  me  at 
least.  Perhaps  he  treats  you  better — France,  what  are  you 
laughing  at?  Eric  has  written  to  you  ?" 

Miss  Forrester's  musical,  merry  laugh  chimed  out. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma  mere,  Eric  has  written  to  me." 

"  And  you  never  told  me.  What  does  the  wretched  boy 
say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  is  wretched.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  let 
ter.  He  merely  wrote  to  give  me  up." 

"  France  ! "  in  horror. 


206  LIGHTLY   WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST. 

"Yes,  mamma — he  came  to  his  senses  down  in  Lincoln 
shire.  Couldn't  think  of  forcing  my  inclinations — if  the  pro 
posed  alliance  of  the  noble  houses  of  Dynely  and  Forrester 
were  distasteful  to  me,  then,  at  any  cost  to  himself  and  his 
own  lacerated  heart,  he  resigned  me.  It  read  like  one  of 
I-ord  Chesterfield's  masterpieces — was  a  model  of  polite  and 
chivalric  composition." 

"  Good  Heaven  !  and  you — France,  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

Again  Miss  Forrester's  laugh  rang  out. 

"I  answered  in  three  words,  mamma — terse,  pithy,  and 
to  the  point.  I  wrote,  *  Dear  Eric  :  Who  is  she  ? '  That 
epistle  he  has  not  done  me  the  honor  of  answering.  I  think 
1  see  his  face  when  he  read  it." 

And  then  Fiance  lay  back  and  went  off  into  a  prolonged 
peal  of  merriment. 

Lady  Dynely  rose  up  on  her  sofa,  her  delicate  cheeks 
flushing  with  vexation. 

"  You  wrote  that,  France — to  Eric  ?  " 

"  I  wrote  that,  mamma,  to  Eric.  I  understand  Eric  better 
than  you  do,  and  I'm  not  the  least  afraid  of  Eric,  Und  you 
are.  I  could  not  have  written  anything  more  to  the  point, 
if  I  had  tried  for  a  month.  He  might  have  answered, 
though ;  I  should  like  to  know  who  my  rival  is  this  time." 

"  France,  do  you  really  believe — " 

"  That  Eric  has  fallen  in  love  in  Lincolnshire,  for  the  one- 
millionth  time  ?  Yes,  Lady  Dynely,  as  firmly  as  that  I  sit 
here.  Now,  who  do  you  suppose  she  can  be  ?  There  are 
no  ladies  in  Sir  Philip's  household,  and  I  don't  think  he 
would  bestow  his  heart's  best  affections  upon  the  cook." 

"Miss  Forrester,  if  you  consider  this  a  theme  for  jest — " 

"Please  don't  be  dignified,  mamma,  and  please  don't  call 
me  Miss  Forrester.  Don't  I  say,  1  don't  believe  he  would. 
It  must  be  one  of  Terry's  family — you  know  what  I  mean — 
one  of  the  Council  of  Nine — one  of  the  nine  Misses  Hig- 
gins  !  It  would  be  comical  if  Terry  and  he  were  brothers- 
in-law  after  all,  both  married  on  the  same  day,  in  the  same 
church,  in  the  same  family,  by  the  same  pastor  and  papa. 
Quite  a  pastoral  idyl  altogether." 

Miss  Forrester  laughed  again.     Of  late,  since  the  receipt 


LIGHTLY   WON,    LIGHTLY  LOST.  2O/ 

of  Lord  Dynely's  letter,  the  whole  world  had  turned  rose- 
color  to  the  heiress  of  Caryllynne.  The  portrait  painting 
business  was  still  going  on  ;  but  not  even  to  herself  would 
Miss  Forrester  admit  that  that  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 

Tears  actually  sprang  to  Lady  Dynely's  pale  blue  eyes. 

"You  are  cruel,  France  ;  you  don't  mean  to  be,  perhaps, 
but  you  are.  I  have  set  my  heart,  my  whole  heart,  on  see 
ing  yon  Eric's  wife,  and  you  treat  the  matter  like  this.  You 
despise  him— you  must,  since  you  hold  him  and  his  feelings 
so  lightly  and  contemptuously." 

France  laid  down  her  drawing,  went  over,  knelt  beside  the 
elder  lady,  and  gave  her  a  kiss. 

"Now,  mamma  mine,  look  here,"  she  said,  coaxingly, 
"it's  just  this.  You  love  Eric,  and  love  is  blind  ;  you  don't 
see  him  as  he  is.  I'm  not  in  love  with  him,  and  couldn't  be 
if  he  lived  in  the  same  house  for  the  next  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  and  I  do  see  Eric  as  he  is.  He's  very  handsome,  and 
very  brilliant,  and  very  charming,  but  he  is  as  unstable  as 
water.  He  has  no  back-bone  ;  and  if  I  married  him,  and  he 
didn't  break  my  heart  the  first  year,  I  should  hen  peck  him 
to  death,  or — the  divorce  court.  For  the  rest,  you'll  see  I'm 
right.  Some  new  face  caught  his  fickle  fancy  down  there, 
and  hence  that  magnanimous  letter.  I  don't  blame  him , 
he  was  born  so,  I  suppose,  and  can't  help  it.  Hark  !  " 

She  started  to  her  feet  and  ran  to  the  window.  A  fly  from 
the  railway  was  just  stopping,  and  a  young  gentleman  in  a 
light  gray  suit  in  the  act  of  leaping  out.  Again  France 
laughed. 

"  '  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes,' 

as  Hecate  says.  Speak  of  the  angels  and  you  hear  their 
wings.  Here's  Eric  now." 

Eric  it  was.  He  came  in  as  she  spoke,  and  met  her  laugh 
ing,  roguish  glance,  that  seemed  to  read  his  inmost  thoughts. 

"  At  last !  Just  as  your  mother  and  I  were  turning  our 
thoughts  to  crape  and  bombazine.  We  had  given  you  up 
for  lost,  Eric,  and  here  you  come  upon  us  like  a  beautiful 


210  LIGHTLY  WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST.< 

"  I  don't  know.  This  girl  is  the  sister  of  the  girl  Terry  is 
going  to  marry  ?  " 

"  No,  madarae,"  said  her  son,  coolly,  filling  another  glass 
of  sherry  ;  "  not  her  sister,  but  herself." 

"  What !  " 

"What  an  amount  of  talking  these  things  seem  to  in 
volve,"  Eric  said,  pathetically,  "  and  how  inexcusably  void  of 
comprehension  people  appear  to  be.  I  repeat,  my  dear 
Lady  Dynely,  the  young  lady  I  intend  to  marry  is  the  young 
lady  Mr.  Dennison  honored  with  his  preference,  and  in 
tended  to  transform  into  Mrs.  Dennison.  Unfortunately  for 
him,  '  I  came,  I  saw,  I  conquered.'  She  preferred  me  to  the 
big  dragoon,  and  I  left ;  Terry  exclaiming,  like  Francis  First 
at  Pavia,  « All  is  lost  but  honor.'  " 

He  paused.  His  mother  had  risen  to  her  feet,  every  trace 
of  color  leaving  her  face,  her  eyes  fixed  in  a  sort  of  horror 
upon  her  son. 

11  Eric,"  she  said,  huskily,  "you  tell  me — you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  have  taken  from  Terry  the  girl  he  loved?" 

Eric  lifted  his  blonde  eyebrows  in  weary  resignation. 

"  If  you  put  it  in  that  sentimental  way — yes,  mamma." 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him.  She  tried  to  speak — no 
words  came.  The  baseness  of  this,  after  all  Terry  had 
resigned,  the  noble  self-sacrifice  he  had  shown — was  too 
much.  He  had  given  up  his  birthright  to  Eric,  and  this 
was  Eric's  return. 

"  Mother,"  Eric  cried,  rising  to  his  feet,  aroused  to  some 
thing  like  alarm  by  the  pale  horror  of  her  face.  "  What  is 
the  matter  now?  Why  do  you  take  Terry's  affairs  so  much 
to  heart?  Isn't  he  big  enough  and  old  enough  to  look 
after  himself?  Am  I  to  blame,  is  she  to  blame,  if  she  pre 
fers  me  to  him  ?  I  expected  to  be  taken  to  task  on 
France's  account,  but,  gad  !  I  certainly  didn't  expect  to  on 
Terry's." 

"You  don't  know — you  don't  know — "  she  said  in  a  bro 
ken  voice. 

"  No,  I  don't  know."  Eric  answered,  with  an  impatient 
frown,  "but  I  should  uncommonly  like  to.  What  is  Denni 
son  that  I  should  let  his  feelings  stand  in  my  way  ?  He 


LIGHTLY   WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST.  2II 

hadn't  spoken,  so  he  has  no  reason  to  complain.     Here  is  a 
note  from  him,  by  the  way,  to  you." 

He  presented  her  the  letter,  and  sat  watching  her  while 
she  read  it,  lying  back  among  the  cushions  of  his  chair.  It 
was  short : 

"  DEAREST  LADY  DYNELY  : — Eric  has  told  you  all  by  this 
time.  If  he  loves  her,  and  is  good  to  her,  I  ask  no  more, 
If  he  is  not,  then,  as  I  have  told  him,  he  shall  answer  to  me. 
She  loves  him  with  all  her  innocent  heart,  and  she  is  so  dear 
to  me,  that  I  would  die  to  save  her  a  moment's  pain.  Let 
him  look  to  it,  if  he  tires  of  her,  and  tries  to  throw  her  over. 
For  you,  if  I  have  any  claim  whatever  upon  you,  I  ask 
this  favor  of  you  in  return.  Come  here,  take  her  to  your 
heart  as  your  daughter,  and  1  shall  consider  myself  more 
than  repaid.  Ever  yours, 

"TERRY." 

She  sank  back  on  her  sofa,  crushed  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
laid  her  face  against  the  cushions,  and  burst  into  an  unre 
strained  passion  of  tears.  Eric  arose  angrily  to  his  feet. 

"I  don't  understand  this,"  he  said.  "What  is  Dennison 
that  his  interests  should  be  nearer  to  you  than  mine  ?  What 
has  he  said  in  the  letter?" 

"  Nothing  that  concerns  you  to  see,"  Lady  Dynely  said, 
proudly  lifting  her  head.  "  Have  you  anything  more  to  say, 
Eric,  before  I  go  to  dress  ?  " 

"  This,  that  it  is  my  wish  you  accompany  me  to  Lincoln 
shire  to-morrow,  and  formally  receive  Crystal  as  my  betrothed 
wife." 

He  stood  haughtily  erect  before  her — a  young  Sultan  issu 
ing  his  sovereign  commands  to  his  womankind. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  answered  briefly.  "  Is  there  anything 
else  ?  " 

"That  you  will  tell  France — I  don't  wish  any  chaffing  on 
this  subject;  it  is  a  weakness  of  Miss  Forrester's  to  chaff  a 
fellow,  and  is  very  bad  form.  Tell  her  at  once,  and  have 
done  with  it." 

The  youthful  autocrat  must  be  obeyed.  With  a  weary 
sigh  Lady  Dynely  sought  out  Miss  Forrester,  and  found  ner 


2o8  LIGHTLY   WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST. 

dream  once  more.  And  now,  while  you  tell  her  all  the  news 
of  your  sojourn,  I  will  run  away  and  dress  for  dinner." 

She  left  the  room,  almost  disconcerting  Eric  by  her  last 
saucy  backward  glance.  Almost,  not  wholly — nothing  earthly 
ever  entirely  put  his  lordship  out  of  countenance. 

"  Really,  Eric,"  his  mother  began,  pettishly,  "  I  don't  see 
how  France  can  treat  your  desertion  of  her  so  lightly.  In 
my  days  such  conduct  would  have  been  considered  unpar 
donable." 

"Ah  !  but  we  don't  live  in  the  dark  ages  now,"  Eric  re 
sponded,  first  ringing  the  bell,  then  sinking  into  France's 
vacated  chair.  "  And  my  desertion  of  France — please  trans 
late  that,  mother  mine  ;  I  don't  understand." 

"  It  is  easily  understood.  You  asked  France  to  marry 
you  before  you  left,  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  I — I  believe  so.  It  is  three  weeks  ago,  and  a  man  may 
naturally  be  pardoned  if  his  memory  is  somewhat  hazy  at 
that  distance  of  time." 

"  You  asked  her  to  marry  you,"  pursued  his  mother,  over 
looking  this  persiflage,  "  and  she  told  you  to  come  for  her  an 
swer  in  a  week — did  she  not  ?  " 

"  My  dear  mother,  what  an  admirable  counsel  for  the 
prosecution  you  would  make.  Yes,  she  did.  Sherry  and 
seltzer,"  to  the  footman  who  entered. 

"And  you  never  came,"  Lady  Dynely  said,  her  eyes 
flashing  angrily.  "  Eric,  is  that  the  conduct  of  a  gentleman 
— a  lover — a  man  of  honor  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  conduct  of  a  man  of  sense. 

"  « If  she  be  not  fair  for  me  ? 

What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? ' 

It  would  have  been  an  act  most  unbecoming  a  gentleman  to 
force  a  lady's  inclination.  So  France  gave  me  to  under 
stand  ;  and  so,  upon  sage  second  thought,  I  came  to  see. 
I  didn't  come  for  the  answer;  I  wrote  for  it." 

"You  did?" 

"  I  did,"  said  Eric,  filling  himself  a  glass  of  sherry ;  "  I 
wrote,  renoi-.ncing  her  unless  she  came  tome  of  her  own  free 


LIGHTLY   WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST.  209 

will.  It  was  a  most  honorable,  manly  and  high-toned  letter, 
I  consider  myself." 

"  And  she  said  ?  "  eagerly. 

"  She  said,"  said  Eric,  laughing  at  the  recollection,  "  '  Who 
is  she?'  I  believe  Miss  Forrester  must  be  a  sorceress.  I 
haven't  taken  the  trouble  to  tell  her  who  she  is,  but  I  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  return  here  to-day  to  tell  you." 

"  Eric,"  his  mother  cried,  starting  to  her  feet,  "you  mean 
to  tell  me — " 

"Mamma,"  Eric  said,  plaintively,  "do  sit  down.  Don't 
excite  yourself.  Good  Heaven  !  where' s  the  use  of  every 
body  taking  things  so  seriously  in  this  way — getting  steam 
up  to  such  a  height  for  nothing?  I  mean  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  met  a  girl  I  like  a  thousand  times  better  than  France 
Forrester ;  that  I  have  asked  her  to  marry  me  ;  that  I  have 
asked  her  father  for  his  consent,  and  that  he  has  given  his 
consent,  contingent  upon  yours.  There  is  the  whole  matter 
for  you  in  a  nutshell." 

His  mother  dropped  back,  stunned. 

"In  three  weeks,"  she  murmured,  in  a  dazed  voice,  "all 
this  in  three  weeks'  time." 

"We  live  in  a  rapid  age,  mother,"  responded  the  young 
man,  coolly.  "Time  is  precious;  why  waste  it  ?  Strange 
it  may  seem,  but  no  less  strange  than  true.  And  truth  is 
stranger  than  fiction.  It  is  an  accomplished  fact." 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "   Lady  Dynely  asked,  helplessly. 

"France's  question  over  again.     She  is  Miss  Higgins." 

"  Higgins ! " 

"  Yes,  poor  child.  It's  not  a  distinguished  appellation, 
and  a  rose  by  any  other  name  does  not  smell  as  sweet. 
'Christabel — twenty-first  Viscountess  Dynely,  nee  Higgins,' 
will  not  look  well  in  Debrett.  However,  there  is  no  rose 
without  its  thorn,  they  tell  me.  She  is  the  Vicar  of  Starling's 
eighth  daughter." 

"  Fiance  said  so,"  murmured  her  ladyship,  still  in  that 
helplessly  stunned  tone. 

"  rid  she?  Then  we  ought  to  have  France  burned  as  a 
tfitch,  Terry  hasn't  been  writing  to  her,  has  he  ?  " 


- 


212  LIGHTLY  WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST. 

quite  dressed  and  looking  very  handsome,  sitting  gazing  with 
dreamy  eyes  at  the  sun  setting  over  the  green  Devon  woods. 

"  Well,  ma  mere  ?  "  she  asked. 

"It  is  all  as  you  said,  France,"  my  lady  answered;  "he 
fell  in  love  in  Lincolnshire." 

Miss  Forrester  laughed,  and  yet  with  a  touch  of  feminine 
pique  too. 

"  I  knew  it.  I  felt  it  in  the  uttermost  depth  of  my  pro 
phetic  soul — 

"  '  Oh,  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted, 
Oh,  my  Eric,  mine  no  more.' 

Who  is  she  ?     One  of  the  nine  Misses  Higgins  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  nine  Misses  Higgins." 

"  And  Terry  and  Eric  will  be  brothers-in-law,  as  I  said. 
What  a  capital  joke,  Lady  Dynely." 

"  No,  France — not  brothers-in-law.     It  is — " 

But  France  started  impetuously  to  her  feet. 

"Lady  Dynely  don't  say  it.  Don't  say  it  is  the  particular 
Miss  Higgins  Terry  wanted.  Don't  make  me  think  so  badly 
of  Eric  as  that." 

But  Lady  Dynely  sat  sorrowful  and  mute,  and  France  read 
all  the  truth  in  that  sad  face. 

"  It  is,  then.  Oh,  this  is  too  bad  !  too  bad  ! — too  bad  of 
her,  too  bad  of  Eric.  It  reminds  one  of  the  Scripture 
story  of  the  cruel  man  who  took  his  neighbor's  one  ewe  lamb. 
My  poor,  good  Terry  ! " 

She  sat  down,  her  eyes  flashing  through  bright  tears. 

"  I  knew  him  weak  and  fickle,"  she  said  ;  "  I  never  thought 
him  dishonorable.  For  her,"  contemptuously,  "  she  never 
could  have  been  worth  one  thought  from  Terry  Dennison." 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Terry,"  Lady  Dynely  said, 
sadly.  "  Poor  fellow  !  he  makes  no  mention  of  coming  back. 
He  wishes  me  to  accompany  Eric  to  Lincolnshire  and  for 
mally  countenance  the  engagement." 

"  You  will  go,  of  course  ?  " 

"  I  can  do  nothing  else.  And  you,  France — you  care 
wholly  on  Terry's  account,  I  am  sure,  not  at  all  on  your 
own." 


LIGHTLY  WON,   LIGHTLY  LOST.  213 

"  Not  in  the  least  on  my  own,"  France  said,  holding  her 
handsome  head  high,  her  dark  eyes  still  full  of  indignant  fire. 
"  But  Terry  loved  this  girl,  and  Terry — I  must  say  it,  though 
I  offend  you,  Lady  Dynely — is  worth  two  hundred  Erics. 
Oh,  it  is  a  shame — a  shame  !  " 

They  met  at  dinner.  Miss  Forrester's  greeting  was  of  the 
coldest  and  most  constrained.  Eric  was  his  own  natural, 
languid,  charming  self,  at  his  best.  His  mother's  sad,  pale 
face  he  would  not  see,  France's  flushed  cheeks  and  angry 
eyes  he  overlooked. 

"  It  takes  two  to  make  a  row,"  Eric  thought ;  "  you  won't 
make  a  row  with  me." 

Once  France  spoke  of  Terry — her  bright,  angry  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face,  her  own  wearing  a  very  resolute  look. 
Where  was  Terry  ?  How  had  he  left  him  ?  Where  was  he 
going?  When  did  he  mean  to  return?  Eric  bore  it  heroi 
cally. 

"  Io  paean, 
Terry  !  Terry  ! » 

he  laughed.  "  How  you  ring  the  changes  on  that  classical 
name.  I  don't  know  anything  of  Terry's  outgoings  and  in 
comings.  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?  Your  solicitude 
does  Mr.  Dennison  too  much  honor." 

She  turned  from  him. 

"  He  has  no  heart,"  she  thought  ;  "no  sense  of  remorse ; 
no  feeling  for  any  human  being  but  himself.  J  pity  Miss 
Crystal  Higgins." 

The  evening  brought  Mr.  Locksley,  the  artist. 

"  So  he  comes  still,"  Eric  thought,  watching  with  sleepy, 
half-closed  eyes  his  mother  and  the  artist  playing  chess, 
while  France  sat  at  the  piano  and  sang  softly.  "  I  wonder 
— I  wonder  if  this  is  the  secret  of  your  queenly  indifference, 
Miss  Forrester,  to  me." 

Next  day  Lady  Dynely  and  her  son  departed.  France 
watched  Eric  out  of  sight  with  a  smile,  the  fag  end  of  an  old 
ballad  on  h?r  lips  : 

"  «  Lightly  won  and  lightly  lost, 
A  fair  good-night  to  thee.'  " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


ONCE    MORE   THE    GATE    BEHIND    ME  FALLS. 

IN  that  pleasant  upper  room  of  Dynely  Abbey,  set 
apart  as  Mr.  Locksley's  studio,  and  sacred  wholly 
to  that  artist  and  his  painting  goods  and  chattels, 
Mr.  Locksley  himself  stood  on  the  morning  of  the 
day  that  took  Lady  Dynely  and  her  son  to  Lincolnshire. 
He  stood  with  folded  arms  and  a  darkly  thoughtful  look, 
gazing  at  his  own  work.  As  he  stood  there,  tall,  strong, 
erect,  the  soldierly  air  that  told  of  his  past  calling  was  more 
manifest  than  ever. 

This  portrait  was  a  gem — something  more  than  an  ordi 
nary  portrait — as  a  work  of  art,  worthy  of  Reynolds  or  Roin- 
ney.  It  had  been  a  labor  of  love,  heart  and  soul  had  been 
in  the  work,  and  the  result  did  what  the  works  of  master 
hands  seldom  do,  satisfied  himself. 

From  a  darkly  misty  background  the  face  of  France  For 
rester  shone  vividly  out,  startlingly  life-like  in  coloring  and  ex 
pression.  He  had  caught  her  very  look,  that  mischievous 
sparkle  of  eye  and  smile,  that  brightly  mutinous  turn  of  the 
graceful  head,  as  she  leaned  forward  from  the  canvas. 
Those  darkly  laughing  eyes  looked  up  at  the  artist  now  from 
beneath  that  floating  chevelure  of  rich,  waving  hair,  the  perfect 
lips  smiled  upon  him  saucily,  as  though  they  understood 
his  sombre  thoughts  and  mocked  at  them. 

"As  she  would,  most  likely,"  he  thought,  "if  she  knew 
all.  But  no — that  is  not  France  Forrester.  Proud  she  is, 
proud  of  the  name  she  bears,  the  lineage  that  lies  behind  her 
and  the  place  she  holds  in  life,  but  to  laugh  at  any  mortal 
pain  is  not  in  her.  I  can  see  the  first  flush  of  haughty  anger 
arid  amaze  at  the  nameless  painter's  presumption — then  the 
soft  womanly  compassion  for  his  suffering,  that  would  make 


THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS.  2l5 

gentle  and  tender  her  parting  words.  And  yet  I  have 
thought  that  if  she  knew  all,  the  whole  truth  " — he  paused 
suddenly  and  turned  impatiently  away  towards  the  window. 
"What  a  fool  I  am,"  he  muttered,  half-aloud.  "She  loves 
that  handsome  dandy,  of  course — he  is  the  sort  of  gilded  fop 
womankind  make  idols  of.  Could  I  not  see  it  in  her  face 
last  night  ?  " 

He  stood  staring  out  at  my  lady's  carefully  kept  Italian 
garden,  all  ablaze  with  gorgeous  August  flowers.  It  was 
a  sultry,  overcast  day — sunless,  windless,  gray.  Early  in  the 
morning  the  sun  had  come  out  with  a  dazzling  brightness, 
only  to  vanish  again  and  leave  behind  a  low,  leaden  sky, 
frowning  with  drifting  cloud. 

The  great  house  was  very  still.  My  lord  and  lady  had 
gone ;  Miss  Forrester's  clear  voice,  and  the  light,  silken 
rustle  of  her  garments  were  nowhere  to  be  heard.  She  was 
not  to  sit  to  Mr.  Locksley  any  more  ;  the  last  sitting  had 
been  given  a  week  ago,  and  though  he  still  came  daily  it 
was  but  to  add  the  few  last  finishing  touches  to  his  perfected 
work.  He  dined  with  the  two  ladies  at  intervals,  and  spent 
occasional  evenings  at  the  Abbey  when  there  were  no  other 
visitors.  From  general  society  he  shrank ;  but  he  never 
refused  my  lady's  cordial  invitations  when  she  and  her  ward 
were  alone.  It  might  have  been  wiser  if  he  had.  They 
were  growing  dangerously  dear  to  him,  these  long  tete-a-tete 
evenings  with  the  heiress  of  Caryllyne  ;  perilously  precious, 
this  standing  beside  her,  turning  over  her  music,  listening  to 
the  old  ballads  she  loved  to  sing,  watching  the  white,  flying 
fingers,  the  tender,  lovely,  spirited  face — how  dear,  how  pre 
cious,  he  was  finding  out  now  to  his  cost. 

He  turned  from  the  window  and  began  pacing  impatiently 
up  and  down  the  long,  lofty  room.  In  spite  of  the  wide 
open  window  the  atmosphere  was  almost  painfully  oppres 
sive.  So  sultry,  so  airless  was  the  leaden  day,  that  it  was 
only  by  an  effort  one  could  breathe.  The  physical  suffering 
blended  with  the  mental.  He  loosened  the  strip  of  black 
ribbon  at  his  throat,  as  though  even  that  suffocated  him. 
He  was  fac'.ng  for  the  first  time  the  bare  truth  to-day.  He 
had  shut  his  eyes  w'lfully  to  his  own  danger ;  the  moth  had 


2i6  THE   GATE  BEHIND   ME  FALLS. 

seen  the  lighted  candle,  and  intoxicated  by  its  brilliancy, 
had  still  flown  headlong  in.  Was  the  moth  to  be  pitied, 
then,  let  him  singe  his  wings  ever  so  badly  ? 

"  I  will  go  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  abruptly,  "  I  will  go  to- 
moirow.  Flight  is  one's  only  safeguard  in  these  things.  If 
I  stay,  if  I  see  any  more  of  her  I  will  commit  the  last  crown 
ing  act  of  folly,  and  tell  her  all.  My  work  is  finished — there 
is  no  cause  to  linger.  Yes,  I  will  go — I  will  start  for  Spain 
to-morrow,  and  explore  it  from  the  Escurial  to  the  Alham- 
bra,  and  in  painting  dark-eyed  Morisco  maidens  and  bull 
fights  I  will  forget  this  summer's  fooling." 

He  looked  at  his  watch — two  o'clock.  Three  was  his 
dinner  hour — it  would  take  him  the  hour  to  walk  to  the 
village.  He  made  his  headquarters  at  the  "  Kiddle-a- 
wink"  in  the  village  of  Dynely,  and  slept  in  that  upper 
chamber  wherein  sixteen  years  before,  one  summer  night, 
Alexis  Dynely  lay  dying. 

As  he  passed  out  from  the  house  into  the  sultry  afternoon, 
he  glanced  up  at  the  sky.  It  was  growing  darker  every 
instant — a  faint,  damp  rain  was  beginning  to  fall.  It  was 
doubtful,  good  walker  though  he  was,  if  he  would  outstrip 
the  storm  and  reach  the  inn  before  the  summer  rain  fell. 
He  looked  around  as  he  walked  rapidly  away,  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  gauzy  dress,  to  hear  a  girl's  sweet  voice  singing, 
to  see  a  graceful  head  bent  over  a  book  or  a  drawing.  Miss 
Forrester,  however,  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  It  was  as  well 
so,  perhaps. 

"  I  will  call  this  evening  and  make  my  adieux  to  both 
ladies,"  he  thought,  and,  pulling  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  strode 
rapidly  on  his  way. 

Yes,  he  would  leave  England  on  the  morrow — for  good 
and  all  this  time.  Where  was  the  use  of  coming  back, 
where  the  sight  of  the  familiar  places,  the  familiar  faces  that 
knew  him  no  more,  brought  nothing  but  pain  ?  He  would 
make  Rome  his  headquarters  for  life,  and  give  himself  up 
utterly  to  his  art.  A  boy's  mad  folly,  a  woman's  base 
deceit  had  wrecked  his  life  sixteen  years  ago.  He  had  been 
thrust  out  from  his  mother's  home  and  heart  with  scorn 
and  bitter  words,  his  birthright  given  to  a  stranger.  It 


THE   GATE  BEHIND   ME  FALLS.  217 

never  occurred  to  him  to  sue  for  commutation  of  that 
sentence.  With  the  past  he  had  nothing  to  do  ;  he  had 
deserved  his  fate,  he  had  disgraced  his  name ;  his  mother 
had  done  rightly ;  in  the  future  the  art  he  loved  was  all  he 
had  left  him.  He  would  start  upon  his  second  exile  to-mor- 
ro\v.  Tnis  time  there  should  be  no  looking  back,  this  time 
it  should  be  life -long.  To  return  to  England  meant  return 
ing  to  see  her  the  happy  wife  of  Lord  Dynely ;  to  return 
and  sue  for  his  mother's  favor,  meant  to  oust  her  from  her 
fortune,  to  rake  up  all  the  old  dead-and-gone  scandal,  to 
bring  the  shame  from  which  that  mother,  the  haughtiest 
woman  in  England,  had  fled  sixteen  years  before,  back  to 
her  in  its  first  force.  No,  there  was  nothing  for  him  but 
silence  and  exile  to  the  end. 

"  Mr.  Locksley  ?  " 

The  clear  sweet  voice  made  him  look  up  from  his  moody 
reverie  with  a  start.  And  then,  like  a  vision,  France  For 
rester's  brightly  smiling  face,  set  in  a  ravishing  bon 
net,  beamed  upon  him.  Miss  Forrester,  with  a  tiny  groom 
behind  her,  drove  a  low,  basket  phaeton  and  a  pair  of 
spanking  little  ponies.  She  drew  up  the  ponies  in  dashing 
style,  and  turned  to  the  artist  with  that  bewitching  smile  of 
hers. 

"Are  you  going  home,  Mr.  Locksley — I  mean  to  the  inn  ? 
Pray  don't  go  just  yet.  Let  me  offer  you  this  vacant  seat. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Was  fate  pursuing  him  when  he  meant  to  fly  from  danger? 
He  took  the  seat  beside  her,  and  Miss  Forrester  with  a 
touch  of  her  parasol-whip,  sent  the  little  steppers  briskly 
ahead. 

"  I  am  alone  to-day — do  you  know  it?  And  as  I  didn't 
expect  even  your  society,  Mr.  Locksley — I  came  away. 
They  left  by  the  early  train  this  morning." 

"They— who?" 

"Lady  Dynely  and  Eric.  Oh,  you  don't  know,  then — [ 
thought  perhaps  she  had  told  you  over  your  chessmen  last 
evening.  Yes,  they  started  for  Lincolnshire  this  morning— 
to  be  gone  a  week  at  the  least;  and  I  am  queen  regent, 
ittonarch  of  all  I  survey,  until  their  return.  The  first  use  I 
10 


2i8  THE    GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS. 

make  of  my  liberty  is  to  spend  a  whole  long  day  at  dear  old 
Caryllynne.  It  is  not  nearly  so  ancient  nor  so  stately  as  the 
Abbey,  but  I  love  it  a  hundred  times  more.  Have  you  ever 
been  there,  Mr.  Locksley  ?  " 

Siie  looked  up  at  him,  half  wondering  at  the  dark  gravity 
of  his  face. 

t(  I  have  been  there.  Miss  Forrester." 

"  Indeed  !  Strange  that  Mrs.  Matthews,  the  housekeeper, 
told  me  nothing  about  it." 

"I  have  not  been  in  the  house." 

"Then  you  have  missed  an  artistic  treat.  The  Caryll 
picture  gallery  is  the  pride  of  the  neighborhood ;  there  if. 
nothing  like  it  in  the  whole  country.  Mrs.  Caryll,  as  I  have 
told  you,  is  really  a  devotee  of  art,  and  always  was.  There 
are  Cuyp's,  and  VVouvermain's,  and  Sir  Joshua's  portrait, 
and  sunsets  by  Turner,  and  sunrises  by  Claude  Lorraine,  a 
gallery  of  modern  and  a  gallery  of  Venetian  art.  Oh,  yon 
really  must  see  it,  and  at  once.  I  shall  drive  you  over  and 
play  cicerone.  Nothing  I  like  so  well  as  showing  the  dear, 
romantic  old  Manor." 

"You  are  most  kind,  Miss  Forrester,"  he  said,  with  a  sort 
of  effort,  "  but  it  is  quite  impossible.  I  mean,"  seeing  her 
look  of  surprise,  "  that  as  I  leave  Devonshire  to-morrow,  I 
will  have  no  time.  Wandering  artists  don't  keep  valets,  so 
I  must  attend  to  the  packing  of  my  own  portmanteau,  and  that, 
with  some  letters  to  write,  will  detain  me  until  midnight." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her,  else  he  might  have  seen  and 
possibly  understood  the  swift,  startled  pallor  that  came  over 
her  face. 

"  You  are  going  away  ?  "  she  said,  slowly. 

"The  portrait  is  finished,  my  work  here  is  done.  I  owe 
Lady  Dynely  and  you,  Miss  Forrester,  many  thanks  for  your 
kind  efforts  to  render  my  sojourn  agreeable." 

"  If  Lady  Dynely  were  here,"  Miss  Forrester  answered, 
her  color  returning,  and  in  her  customary  gay  manner,  "  she 
would  say  the  thanks  were  due  you,  for  helping  to  while 
away  two  poor  women's  long,  dull  evenings.  Isn't  it  rather 
a  pity  to  go  before  she  returns  ?  She  will  regret  it  extremely, 
J  know." 


THE    GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS.  219 

"  If  I  had  known  of  this  sudden  departure.  I  would  have 
made  my  adieux  to  her  ladyship  last  night.  May  I  further 
trespass  on  your  great  kindness,  Miss  Forrester,  and  charge 
)ou  with  my  farewell  ?" 

She  bent  her  head  and  set  her  lips  a  little  as  she  cut  the 
ponies  sharply  with  her  whip.  It  had  come  upon  her  almost 
like  a  blow,  this  sudden  revelation,  but  her  pride  and  thor 
ough  training  hid  all  sign. 

"  Artists  are  like  gypsies — ever  on  the  wing — that  I  know 
of  old.  And  whither  do  you  go,  Mr.  Locksley  ?  Back  to 
the  green  lanes  and  rural  quiet  and  the  inspiring  surroundings 
of  old  Brompton." 

"  Farther  still,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  ;  "  to  Spain.  I  have 
roamed  almost  over  every  quarter  of  the  habitable  globe  in 
my  forty  years  of  life,  but  Spain  is  still  a  terra  incognita.  I 
have  had  an  intense  desire  ever  since  I  gave  myself  up  wholly 
to  art  to  make  a  walking  tour  over  the  country.  One  should 
find  a  thousand  subjects  there  for  brush  and  pencil." 

"To  Spain,"  she  repeated,  mechanically;  "and  then?" 

"  Well,  I  can  hardly  say.  I  shall  devote  a  year  at  least  to 
Spain,  and  then  most  probably  I  shall  return  to  Rome  and 
make  it  my  headquarters  for  life." 

There  was  dead  silence.  The  ponies  bowled  swiftly 
along  ;  the  road  that  led  to  the  village  had  long  been  passed. 
Neither  noticed  it.  The  thoughtful  gravity  had  deepened 
on  his  face.  Her  hands  grasped  the  reins  tightly,  her  lips 
were  set  in  a  certain  rigid  line.  Her  voice,  when  she  spoke 
again,  had  lost  somewhat  of  its  clear,  vibrating  ring. 

"You  picture  a  very  delightful  future,  Mr.  Locksley;  I 
almost  envy  you.  Oh,  no  need  to  look  incredulous — the 
Bohemian  life  is  the  freest,  brightest,  happiest  on  earth,  but  it 
is  not  for  me.  What  I  waylaid  you  for — to  return  to  first 
principles — is  this.  I  have  had  a  letter  from  my  dear  old 
guardian,  Mrs.  Caryll,  and  she  begs  me  to  send  her  a  dupli 
cate  of  my  portrait.  She  has  one,  but  that  was  painted  five 
years  ago,  and  I  have  been  chanting  the  praises  of  your 
handiwork  until  she  is  seized  with  a  longing  for  a  copy. 
You  natter  me  so  charmingly  on  canvas,  Mr.  Locksley, 
that  I  really  should  like  to  gratify  her  if  it  were  possible  to 


220  THE   GATE  BEHIND    ME   FALLS. 

procure  her  the  copy.  But  I  suppose  all  that  is  out  of  the 
question  now." 

"  Mrs.  Caryll  shall  have  the  copy.  I  trust  she  is  well.  I 
saw  her  so  often  in  Rome,"  he  said,  half  apologetically, 
"  that  I  lake  an  interest  in  her  naturally." 

"  She  is  as  well  as  she  is  ever  likely  to  be,"  France  an 
swered,  rather  sadly,  "  and  so  lonely  without  me  that  I  think 
of  throwing  over  everything  and  going  back  to  join  her.  I 
should  infinitely  prefer  it,  but  she  will  not  hear  of  it  and 
neither  will  Lady  Dynely.  I  must  remain,  it  seems,  and  run 
the  round  of  Vanity  Fair  whether  I  wish  it  or  not.  I  ought 
not  to  complain — I  did  enjoy  last  season.  Come  what  will," 
with  a  half  laugh,  "I  have  been  blessed." 

"  Mrs.  Caryll  has  no  intention  then  of  returning  to 
England?" 

She  will  never  return.  It  is  full  of  bitter  associations  for 
her.  It  would  break  her  heart  to  see  poor  old  Caryllynne." 

"  She  still  takes  her  son's  wrongdoing  so  much  to  heart — • 
she  is  still  so  bitter  against  him  ?  Pardon  me.  Miss  Forres 
ter,  I  have  heard  that  story,  of  course." 

"  There  is  no  apology  needed.  You  will  wonder,  perhaps 
when  I  tell  you,  you  remind  us  all  of  him.  That  is  the  secret 
of  Lady  Dynely's  interest  in  you  from  the  first." 

The  clear,  penetrating,  hazel  eyes  were  fixed  full  on  his 
face.  That  trained  face  never  moved  a  muscle. 

"As  to  being  bitter  against  him,"  pursued  France,  "it  is 
just  the  reverse.  It  is  remorse  for  her  own  cruelty  that 
drives  her  nearly  to  despair  at  times.  For  she  was  cruel  to 
him,  poor  fellow,  when  he  came  to  her  in  his  great  trouble 
and  shame — most  cruel,  most  unmotherly.  He  came  to  her 
in  his  sorrow  and  humiliation,  and  she  drove  him  from  her  with 
bitter  scorn  and  anger.  That  is  the  thought  that  blights  her 
life,  that  has  preyed  upon  her  health,  that  makes  the  thought 
of  home  horrible  to  her.  She  drove  him  from  her  into  poverty 
and  exile  here,  and  here  she  will  never  return.  A  thousand 
times  she  has  said  to  me,  that,  to  look  upon  his  fare  once 
more,  to  hold  him  in  her  arms,  to  hear  him  say  he  forgave 
her,  she  would  give  up  her  very  life,  give  up  all  things  except 
her  hope  of  Heaven." 


THE    GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS.  221 

"She  has  said  that  ?" 

She  was  too  wrapped  in  her  subject  to  heed  his  husky 
voice,  to  mark  the  change  that  had  come  over  his  face. 

"  Again  and  again.  The  hope  of  seeing  him  once  more  is 
the  sole  hope  that  keeps  her  alive." 

"  She  thinks  that  he  is  still  living?" 

"  She  thinks  it.  Every  year  since  that  time,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  the  two  last,  he  has  sent  her  some  remembrance. 
A  line,  a  trinket,  a  flower,  a  token  of  some  sort  to  let  her 
know  he  still  exists.  Those  tokens  have  come  to  her  from 
every  quarter  of  the  globe.  India,  Africa,  America,  and  all 
countries  of  Europe.  There  is  never  an  address — merely 
the  post-mark  to  denote  whence  they  came,  and  his  name  in 
his  own  familiar  hand.  Ah  !  if  we  but  knew  where  to  look  for 
him — where  to  find  him,  I  believe  I  would  travel  the  wide 
earth  over,  if  at  the  end  I  could  find  Gordon  Caryll." 

"  Miss  Forrester  !  you  would  do  this  ?  " 

"  A  hundred  times  more  than  this  !  He  was  my  hero,  Mr. 
Locksley,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  There  is  no  one, 
in  all  the  world,  I  long  so  to  see." 

"  Ahd  yet  the  day  that  finds  him  robs  you  of  a  fortune." 

She  looked  up  at  him  indignantly,  impetuous  tears  in  her 
eyes,  an  excited  flush  on  either  dusk  cheek,  more  beautiful 
than  he  had  ever  seen  her. 

"A  fortune  !  Mr.  Locksley,  do  you  think  no  better  of  me 
than  that  ?  Oh  !  what  would  a  million  fortunes  be  to  the  joy 
of  seeing  him  once  more — of  restoring  him  to  his  mother  ! 
Caryllynne  is  not  mine — only  held  in  trust.  One  day  or 
other,  I  feel,  Gordon  Caryll  will  return,  and  then  '  the  king 
shall  have  his  own  again  ! '  " 

What  was  it  she  read  in  the  face  of  the  man  looking  down 
at  her  ?  Something  more  than  intense  admiration  surely, 
though  she  read  that  there  plainly  enough.  It  brought  her 
down  from  her  heroics,  from  cloudland  to  earth,  from  romance 
to  her  sober  senses.  She  pulled  up  the  ponies  sharply. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  she  said,  in  a  constrained  tone. 
"  I  have  passed  the  turning  to  the  village.  As  you  insist 
upon  going  at  once  to  the  inn,  I  suppose  a  'wilful  man 
must  have  his  way.'  " 


222  THE    GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS. 

He  touched  the  reins  lightly  with  bis  hand,  and  checked  her 
in  the  act  of  turning. 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Forrester  ;  I  have  changed  my  mind. 
I  resist  no  longer.  Since  you  are  so  kind  as  to  be  my 
guide,  I  will  gladly  go  with  you  to  Carryllynne  and  see  the 
picture." 

She  looked  at  him  again — rather  haughtily  it  seemed. 

"You  are  quite  sure  it  is  your  wish,  Mr.  Locksley,  and  not 
a  matter  of  politeness  ?  You  are  quite  sure  it  will  not  incon 
venience  you  at  all?" 

"  Quite  sure,  Miss  Forrester.     I  wish  to  go." 

She  turned  without  a  word  and  drove  on.  The  distance 
was  short.  In  a  few  minutes  the  great  Manor  gates 
were  reached,  and  not  an  instant  too  soon.  The  summer 
storm,  threatening  all  day,  was  upon  them  at  last.  As  they 
passed  beneath  the  lofty  arch  of  masonry,  two  great  drops 
splashed  upon  their  faces. 

They  sped  up  the  avenue,  beneath  the  dark  waving  trees, 
at  full  speed.  A  groom  came  out  to  take  the  horses.  Two 
or  three  old  servants,  on  board  wages,  still  kept  up  the  place. 
Not  an  instant  too  soon  ;  the  rain  was  beginning  to  fall 
heavily  and  fast,  and  a  sharp  flash  of  blue  lightning  cut  the 
dark  air. 

"  Hurry  !  hurry  !  "  was  Miss  Forrester's  cry,  as,  laughing 
and  breathless,  she  ran  up  the  steps.  "  Welcome  to  Caryl- 
lynne,  Mr.  Locksley  !  " 

He  removed  his  hat  with  a  certain  reverence,  as  though 
he  stood  in  a  church  ;  emotion  on  his  face  she  could  not 
read.  She  led  the  way  into  the  vast  tiled  hall,  the  black 
and  white  marble  flooring  covered  with  skins  of  wild  beasts. 

Mrs.  Mathews,  the  housekeeper,  came  forward  to  receive 
her  young  lady. 

"  We  have  come  to  see  the  pictures,  Mrs.  Mathews," 
Miss  Forrester  said,  "  and,  as  we  appear  to  be  storm-bound 
for  some  hours,  I  think  I  must  ask  you  to  give  us  some 
lunch.  This  is  Mr.  Locksley,  and  as  Mr.  Locksley  has  not 
dined,  pray  give  us  something  ihat  will  serve  as  a  substitute." 

Sixteen  years  ago  Mrs.  Mathews  had  been  housekeeper 
heie.  She  bowed  deferentially,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Mr. 


THE    GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS. 

Locksley  with  a  curiously  intense  gaze.  As  she  turned  away 
she  met  her  daughter,  also  domesticated  here. 

"  Who  is  it,  mother  ?  "  the  girl  asked.  "  Who  is  the  gen 
tleman  ?  Lord  Dynely — Mr.  Dennison  ?  " 

"Neither,"  her  mother  answered.  "His  name  is  Mr. 
Locksley ;  and  if  ever  I  saw  one  man's  eyes  in  anothei 
man's  head,  he  has  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Gordon  Caryll." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  STAY." 

JISS  FORRESTER  ran  lightly  to  erne  of  the  upper 
rooms  to  remove  her  bonnet  and  lace  scarf.  It 
was  but  a  moment's  work.  Her  guest  awaited  her 
below  ;  but  she  made  no  haste  to  rejoin  him.  She 
stood  by  one  of  the  windows  looking  down  blankly  at  the 
rain-beaten  garden,  and  trying  to  realize  what  she  had  been 
told.  He  was  going  away — going  away  the  first  thing  to 
morrow — never  to  return  to  England  more. 

She  lingered,  leaning  against  the  window,  while  the 
rain  lashed  the  clear  glass,  and  beat  down  the  tall  ferns  and 
grasses  and  flowers,  heedless  of  how  the  moments  passed. 

All  at  once  she  awoke — as  one  might  from  a  dream — 
broad  awake.  Why  was  she  lingering?  To-morrow  was 
still  to-morrow  ;  to-day  was  here  and  he  with  it.  He  was 
her  guest,  in  this  house  by  her  invitation;  the  duty  of  hos 
pitality  called  her  to  his  side.  The  role  of  love-lorn  damsel 
was  a  role  entirely  out  of  her  part  in  the  drama  of  life. 
She  would  put  off  all  thought  of  what  to-morrow  must 
bring  until  to-morrow  came. 

She  found  Mr.  Locksley  loitering  through  the  long  draw 
ing-room,  looking  at  the  few  pictures  it  contained,  mostly 
family  portraits,  examining  the  curiously  carved  ebony  chairs 
and  cabinets,  the  sandalwood  caskets,  the  great  porcelain 
jars  rilled  with  roses  and  lavender,  and  touching  tenderly,  as 
though  they  were  sensitive  things,  the  curious,  old  china, 
the  quaint,  pretty  trifles  scattered  everywhere,  just  as  Mrs. 
Caryll's  hand  had  placed  them  last. 

"  Isn't  it  a  darling  old  room,"  France  said.  "  Everything 
old-fashioned,  and  quaint,  and  queer,  and  faded,  with  no 
modern  newness  or  splendor  anywhere,  and  yet  twice  as 


"STAY."  22  5 

beautiful  as  any  of  the  grand  recently-fitted  up  rooms  of 
the  Abbey.  Everything  is  just  as  it  was  left  when  she 
went  away — this  room  and  her  room.  In  Gordon's  too, 
poor  fellow,  nothing  has  been  changed." 

Mr.  Locksley  looked  at  her — a  curious  smile  on  his  face, 
a  curious  expression  in  his  eyes,  half  cynical,  half  sad. 

"  What  an  interest  you  seem  to  take  in  Gordon  Caryll, 
Miss  Forrester — this  black  sheep  of  a  spotless  flock,  this  one 
scapegoat  of  an  irreproachable  family.  Was  he  worthy  ol 
it." 

"Most  worthy  of  it,  I  am  sure.  He  was  unfortunate,  Mr. 
Locksley;  he  ruined  himself  for  a  woman's  sake.  It's  not 
a  common  act  of  folly — men  don't  do  that  now-a-days, 
they're  not  capable  of  it.  I  think  I  should  like  them  a 
little  better  if  they  were.  There's  a  sort  of  heroism,  after 
all,  about  a  man  who  deliberately  throws  up  all  his  pros 
pects  in  life  for  a  woman." 

"Very  doubtful  heroism,  Miss  Forrester,  it  seems  to 
have  been  in  his  case.  He  took  a  leap  in  the  dark,  and 
awoke  to  find  himself  in  a  quagmire  of  disgrace,  from  which 
all  his  life  long  he  can  never  arise.  What  a  pretty  garden." 

He  joined  her  at  one  of  the  windows  and  stood  looking 
down.  The  Caryllynne  gardens  covered  in  all  some  half- 
dozen  acres,  utterly  neglected  of  late  years,  and  running 
wild,  a  very  wilderness  of  moss-grown  paths,  tangled  roses 
and  honeysuckles,  clematis  and  syringa,  fallen  statues, 
empty  marble  basins,  where  fountains  once  had  been. 
Over  all,  to-day,  the  wildly  sweeping  rain  and  vivid  play  of 
summer  lightning. 

"  Ruin  and  decay  everywhere,"  France  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"  It  is  plain  to  be  seen  no  masters  eye  ever  rests  here. 
The  gardens  of  Caryllynne,  years  ago,  Mr.  Locksley,  were 
the  glory  of  the  place.  This  was  Mrs.  Caryll's ;  it  has  never 
been  kept  up  since  she  went  away." 

"  But  you,  Miss  Forrester,  I  should  think  that — " 

"Nothing  shall  be  changed — nothing  altered  by  me.  As 
Gordon  Caryll  left,  so  he  shall  find  it  when  he  comes  back." 

"You  are  so  sure  he  will  come  back,  then." 

"  As  sure  as  that  I  stand  here.  I  don't  know  why,  but 
10* 


226  "STAY" 

ever  since  I  have  been  old  enough  to  hear  about  him  and 
think  about  him  I  have  known  that  he  will  come  back." 

"  And  that  return  will  really  make  you — really  make  his 
mother  happy  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  new  life  to  his  mother.  It  will  make  me  hap 
pier  than  anything,"  she  paused  a  moment  and  her  color 
rose — "  almost  happier  than  anything  on  earth." 

"  Then  in  spite  of  the  past  Gordon  Caryll  ought  to  be  a 
happy  man.  You  have  never  seen  him — this  forgotten  exile 
in  whom  you  take  so  deep  an  interest  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  him,  but  I  have  seen  his  picture  and 
have  heard  of  him  from  my  earliest  childhood,  and  when 
ever  and  wherever  we  meet  I  shall  know  him." 

He  gave  a  quick  start,  flushed  slightly  and  laughed.  She 
looked  up  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  You  will  know  him — you  who  have  never  seen  him — you 
think  that,  Miss  Forrester  ?  " 

"  I  think  that,  Mr.  Locksley." 

"  But  he  will  have  changed — sixteen  years  and  more  is  a 
tolerable  time.  No,  Miss  Forrester,  you  might  meet  him  face 
to  face,  talk  to  him,  clasp  hands,  and  still  be  as  strangers. 
Time  and  trouble  change  men ;  sixteen  years  knocking 
around  the  world,  leading  the  sort  of  life  he  has  led,  a 
free  companion,  a  soldier  of  fortune,  will  change  any  man. 
Miss  Forrester,  believe  me,  when  you  meet,  if  ever  you  do 
meet,  you  will  not  know  Gordon  Caryll." 

He  paused  abruptly.  The  dark,  penetrating  eyes  were 
watching  him  with  a  suspicious  intentness  he  did  not  care  to 
meet. 

"Mr.  Locksley,"  she  said  quickly,  "you  were  a  soldier 
of  fortune — you  fought  in  India  about  the  same  time,  or 
so  Terry  Dennison  has  told  me.  Did  you  ever  meet  Gor 
don  Caryll  ?  " 

His  face  flushed  again,  dark  red.  There  was  an  instant's 
silence — then  once  more  he  laughed. 

"  You  are  a  sorceress,  Miss  Forrester.  What  have  I 
said  to  make  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  You  have  said  nothing.  And  yet — Mr.  Locksley,  if  you 
know  anything  tell  me.  I  would  give  half  my  life  to  know." 


"STAY."  227 

"Well,  then — yes,"  but  the  answer  was  given  reluctantly, 
"  I  think  I  once  met  Gordon  Caryll." 

She  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  stood  looking  at 
him  breathlessly. 

"In  India  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  In  India  I  met  a  man  that  I  judge  may  have  been  the 
man  you  mean.  He  was  not  called  Caryll — how  was  it  he 
called  himself?  And  yet  I  know  from  certain  things  he 
told  me  of  his  history  that  he  was  the  man." 

Her  eager  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  her  eager  lips  were 
apart,  the  sensitive  color  coming  and  going  in  her  face. 

"Go  on,"  she  breathed. 

"  I  have  very  little  to  tell.  He  told  me  his  story  one 
night  as  we  lay  beside  our  bivouac  fire — the  story  of  his  terri 
ble  mistake — of  his  terrible  awakening — of  his  divorce  from 
the  woman  who  had  so  utterly  deceived  him — of  his  return 
to  England — of  his  sentence  of  outlawry  and  exile.  I  know 
he  had  no  intention  of  ever  trying  to  have  that  sentence  re 
voked — he  felt  that  he  deserved  it.  It  was  simple  justice  ; 
he  bowed  his  head  and  accepted  his  doom.  He  had  dishon 
ored  a  name  never  approached  by  disgrace  until  he  bore  it ; 
he  had  broken  his  father's  heart  and  brought  him  to  the 
grave  ;  he  had  driven  his  mother  forever  from  the  home  and 
the  country  he  had  resigned.  What  return — what  earthly 
redemption,  could  there  be  for  him  ?  " 

"  And  yet  there  is — there  is  ! "  she  broke  forth  vehe 
mently.  "From  first  to  last  he  was  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning.  He  loved  that  woman — that  wicked,  wretched 
woman,  whose  memory  I  hate — and  he  would  have  given 
up  all  things  for  love  of  her,  had  she  not  been  the  wretch 
she  was.  He  came  to  his  mother  in  his  trouble,  and  she 
thrust  him  forth.  She  has  repented — oh,  how  bitterly — and 
the  only  happiness  life  can  hold  for  her  is  to  make  atone 
ment,  to  receive  and  forgive  him  again.  Oh,  Mr.  Locksley, 
if  you  know  anything  of  him  now,  if  you  can  aid  me  in  find 
ing  him,  help  me.  Bring  him  back  to  us,  to  his  mother,  to 
hij  home,  and  the  whole  gratitude  of  my  life  will  be  yours." 

She  stretched  forth  both  her  hands  to  him.  He  took 
them,  very  pale,  and  held  them  in  his. 


228  "STAY.'1 

"  He  will  rob  you  of  a  noble  inheritance.  Have  you  any 
right  to  throw  it  away?  What  will  Lord  Dynel/  say  to 
that  ?  " 

"  Lord  Dynely  !  "  She  looked  at  him  in  angry  surprise, 
"  What  has  Lord  Dynely  to  do  with  this  ! " 

"  Much,  since  he  has  to  do  with  you.  The  day  that  re« 
stores  Gordon  Caryll  to  his  mother,  robs  you  of  half  your 
fortune." 

"  You  spoke  of  that  before,  Mr.  Locks! ey.  Never  speak 
of  it  again.  What  are  a  thousand  fortunes  compared  to  the 
right  ? — to  seeing  her,  my  best  and  dearest  friend,  happy, 
and  him  restored  from  wandering  and  exile  to  his  own  ?  " 

"  And  as  Lady  Dynely  you  can  afford  to  be  magnanimous 
— a  fortune  more  or  less  can  concern  you  little." 

She  looked  at  him  still  haughtily,  but  with  a  heart  begin 
ning  to  beat  fast.  If  he  cared  nothing  for  her,  why  this  bitter 
tone,  this  pale,  stern  face  ? 

"  As  Lady  Dynely.  There  is  some  mistake  here,  Mr. 
Locksley.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Forrester.  It  is  presumptuous, 
no  doubt,  in  me  to  allude  to  it,  but  as  your  engagement  to 
Lord  Dynely  is  no  secret,  I  may — " 

"  My  engagement  to  Lord  Dynely  !  Who  says  I  am  en 
gaged  to  Lord  Dynely  ?  I  am  nothing  of  the  sort.  Lord 
Dynely  is  engaged  to  a  clergyman's  daughter  in  Lincoln 
shire." 

He  stood  still,  looking  at  her,  his  head  in  a  whirl,  wonder, 
incredulity,  blank  amaze  in  his  face. 

"  There  was  some  sort  of  foolish  compact  between  Mrs. 
Caryll  and  Lady  Dynely,"  proceeded  Miss  Forrester,  "to 
marry  us  when  we  grew  up — a  compact  in  which  I  have  had 
no  part — and  which  we  never  could  ratify.  Eric  and  I  have 
grown  up  as  brother  and  sister — more  than  we  are  now  we 
never  will  or  could  be  to  each  other.  With  the  ordering  of 
my  life  or  fortune,  /ie,  at  least,  has  nothing  to  do." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause — a  most  awkward  and  un 
comfortable  pause  for  Miss  Forrester.  Mr.  Locksley  stood 
still,  so  petrified  by  this  sudden  revelation  that  his  very 
breath  seemed  taken  away. 


"STAY.1 


229 


"  I  thought — I  thought,"  he  said,  "  you  loved  him." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  I  thought  you  loved  him,"  he  went  on.  "  I  thought  you 
were  engaged  to  him.  And  last  night,  when  he  returned,  I 
fancied  I  read  new  happiness  in  your  face — that  his  coming 
had  brought  it,  and  it  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  I  had 
done  with  loving — or  so  I  thought — done  with  women  for 
ever,  and  yet  I  accepted  Lady  Dynely's  invitation  and 
came  down  here.  And  I  thought  you  were  to  be  his  wife, 
that  all  your  heart  was  his,  and  I — " 

"  Resolved  to  run  away  to  Spain,  and  in  painting  dark- 
eyed  Spanish  donnas,  forget  France  Forrester." 

She  laughed  as  she  spoke.  Her  dark  face  was  flushed, 
but  the  old,  gay,  mischief-loving  spirit  was  back.  She  could 
not  look  at  her  lover,  but  she  could  laugh  at  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  moodily,  "there  are  some  dangers  from 
which  flight  is  the  only  safeguard.  You,  a  wealthy  heiress 
in  your  first  youth — I,  a  man  of  forty,  poor,  unknown,  an 
artist  whose  brush  brings  him  the  bread  he  eats.  You  can 
not  realize  more  fully  than  I  do,  how  insane  my  love  for 
you  is." 

"  Have  I  said  it  was  insane  ?  " 

"  France  ! "  he  cried. 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  France,"  he  cried  again,  "  can  it  be  possible  that  you 
care  for  me  !  Speak  my  fate  in  one  word — shall  it  be  go,  or 
stay  ?  " 

She  turned  toward  him,  the  dark  eyes  full  of  radiant  light, 
and  answered : 

"  Stay ! " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"GORDON  CARYLL." 

JEN  minutes  have  passed.  All  that  it  is  necessary 
to  say  has  been  said  ;  the  first  delirium  is  over,  and 
reason  has  resumed  her  sway. 

"  B'lf;  what  will  Lady  Dynely  say  ?  "  Locksley 
asks.  "  How  ?.m  I  to  go  and  tell  her  that  the  impecunious 
artist  whom  she  brought  down  here,  to  paint  her  ward's  pic 
ture,  has  had  the  presumption  to  fall  in  love  with  his  sitter, 
and  declare  that  presumptuous  passion?  And  what  will 
your  guardian  in  Rome  say — Mrs.  Gary  11  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  matters  very  greatly  what  they  say," 
France  laughs.  "  Mrs.  Caryll  I  should  like  to  please  cer 
tainly,  but  since  I  am  not  to  marry  Lord  Dynely,  I  do  not 
think  her  objections  will  be  very  difficult  to  overcome.  For 
Lady  Dynely,  I  am  under  her  care  for  the  present,  but  to 
control  my  actions  in  any  way  she  has  no  right  whatever.  I 
shall  be  of  age  in  two  years,  and  then  " — she  looks  up  into 
the  eager  face  above  her,  still  laughing — "  and  then,  so  you 
are  pleased,  it  won't  matter  very  greatly  what  all  the  world 
together  says." 

"  That  means  you  will  be  wife.  France — am  I  to  believe 
it — that  one  day  I  may  claim  you  as  my  own  ?  " 

"  If  you  care  to  have  me.  And,  meantime,  I  suppose 
you  will  give  up  your  idea  of  rushing  out  of  the  world,  and 
remain  here  like  a  reasonable  mortal,  and  paint  that  dupli 
cate  picture  for  dear  old  grandmamma  Caryll." 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  say — I  will  paint  a  thousand 
duplicates — I  will  stay  here  and  face  an  army  of  guardians 
if  necessary,  and  be  branded  as  a  fortune-hunter,  an  adven 
turer.  For  a  fortune-hunter  they  will  call  me,  and  believe 
me  to  be." 


"GORDON  CARYLL."  231 

"Not  in  my  presence,  at  least,"  France  answers;  "no 
one,  not  those  I  hold  nearest  and  dearest,  shall  speak  ill  of 
you  apd  remain  my  friend.  And  speaking  of  fortune,  I  hope 
you  have  no  objection  to  my  restoring  to  Gordon  Caryll, 
should  he  at  any  time  return,  all  the  inheritance  his  mother 
bequeathes  me.  I  hold  it  in  trust ;  and  let  him  appear  to 
morrow,  or  thirty  years  from  now,  I  will  still  return  it." 

Locksley  laughed. 

"I  object!  Not  likely!  Still— I  hope  he  will  not 
come  ! " 

"  Mr.  Locksley  ! " 

"  I  decline  to  answer  to  that  name  any  longer  to  you. 
1  have  another,  though  the  idea  does  not  seem  to  have 
occurred  to  you." 

"What  is  it?  I  have  seen  G.  Locksley  at  the  bottom  of 
your  pictures.  What  is  it  ?  George  ?  Godfrey  ?  Geoffry  ? 
What  ? 

"  None  of  these — my  name  is " 

The  dark,  luminous  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face. 

"Is— well?" 

"My  name  is  Gordon." 

"  Gordon  !  "  a  startled  expression  came  over  her  face  for  a 
moment — her  eagerly  wistful  eyes  looked  at  him.  But  he 
met  her  gaze  with  his  curiously  imperturbable  smile. 

"  It  is  a  favorite  cognomen  of  yours,  I  know.  There  are 
other  Gordons  in  the  world  beside  Gordon  Caryll,  who  as  I 
said  before,  I  hope  will  never  return." 

"And  why?" 

"  Because  I  am  mortally  jealous  of  him.  He  has  always 
been  your  hero,  by  your  own  showing — is  so  still — and  I 
feel  in  the  depths  of  my  prophetic  soul  that  he  is  destined  to 
be  my  rival.  If  it  were  not  for  that,  I  might  be  tempted  to — " 
a  smile  and  a  provoking  pause. 

"  Well,  to  what  ?  "  she  cries  with  that  pretty  imperiousness 
of  manner  that  was  one  of  her  chief  charms. 

"To  find  him  for  you.  It  ought  not  to  be  an  impossible 
task.  I  think  I  could  accomplish  it,  if  I  were  quite  sure 
your  hero  of  the  past  would  not  become  your  idol  of  the 
future.  To  bring  him  here  with  a  halo  of  romance  envelop- 


232 


"GORDON  CARYLL." 


ing  him  would  be  a  dangerous  experiment.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  go  and  surrender  you  to  Lord  Dynely  ;  to  surrender 
you  now  to  Mr.  Gordon  Caryll — no,  I  am  only  human — I 
could  not  do  that.  Lord  Dynely  would  be  a  dangerous  rival 
for  any  man  living,  with  the  youth  and  the  beauty  of  a  Greek 
god  ;  but  Gordon  Caryll  must  be  old  and  as  battered  as  my 
self.  To  be  ousted  by  him — " 

He  paused ;  she  had  clasped  her  hands,  her  lips  were 
apart,  her  eyes  were  dilated. 

"Mr.  Locksley — " 

"  Gordon — Gordon — I  told  you  my  name." 

"  Gordon,  then — do  you  think — do  you  think  you  can  find 
him?" 

"  Caryll  ?  Why,  yes.  I  can  try  at  least.  I  dare  say  he  is 
as  anxious  to  return  as  you  are  to  have  him  back.  Only  tell 
me,  France,  that  when  he  is  found  he  will  never  come  be 
tween  you  and  me  ?" 

She  looks  at  him,  an  indignant  flash  in  her  eyes — an  indig 
nant  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

"Neither  Gordon  Caryll  nor  any  man  on  earth  can  do 
that.  I  belong  to  you.  Only  I  want  him  back  for  his  own 
sake,  for  his  mother's,  for  mine.  He  has  suffered  enough, 
been  in  exile  long  enough,  for  what  at  no  time  was  his  fault, 
but  his  misfortune.  Fetch  him  back,  if  you  can — it  is  all 
that  is  needed  to  complete  my  perfect  happiness  now." 

The  name  of  her  lover  does  not  come  fluently  from  her 
lips  yet.  "  Gordon."  It  is  an  odd  coincidence,  she  thinks, 
that  he  should  resemble  the  exiled  heir  of  Caryllynne,  and 
bear  the  same  name.  Some  dim,  vague  suspicion  is  begin 
ning  to  creep  over  her,  some  shadow  of  suspicion  rather ;  for, 
as  yet,  the  truth  is  too  wildly  unreal  and  improbable  to  be 
thought  of.  He  knows  more  of  Gordon  Caryll,  she  thinks, 
than  he  will  tell,  and  the  dark  eyes  look  up  at  him  wistfully, 
searchingly.  Something  in  Locksley' s  face  makes  her  think 
the  subject  distasteful  to  him.  He  stands  there  understand 
ing  her  thoroughly,  and  with  a  half-repressed  smile  on  his 
lips.  They  have  changed  places  it  would  seem  ;  she  is  no 
longer  the  haughty,  high-born  heiress — he  no  longer  the  ob* 


"GORDON  CARYLL." 


233 


scure,  penniless  artist,  and  soldier  of  fortune.     It  is  his  to 
rule,  hers  to  obey. 

"  What  a  wretched  expression  of  countenance,  Miss  For 
rester,"  he  said  laughing.  "  Are  you  regretting  your  hasty 
admission  of  five  minutes  ago  ?  Are  you  sorry  already  you 
bade  me  stay  ?  If  so — " 

Her  clasped  hands  tighten  on  his  arm.  Sorry  she  bade 
him  stay  !  Her  radiant  eyes  answer  that. 

"  Then  it  is  solely  on  Gordon  Caryll's  account.  Be  at 
peace,  my  France,  ask  no  questions ;  we  will  talk  of  our 
selves,  not  of  him.  Only  be  sure  of  this — he  shall  return 
to  his  home,  to  his  mother,  and  to  you." 

She  lays  her  happy  face  against  his  shoulder  in  eloquent 
silence.  So  they  stand — looking  out  at  the  leaden  summer 
afternoon,  listening  to  the  soft,  dark  rush  of  the  summer  rain. 

"  How  will  we  get  back  to  Dynely  Abbey  if  this  lasts  ?  " 
France  says  at  last. 

"  It  is  not  going  to  last,"  Mr.  Locksley  answers  ;  "  it  is 
lighting  already  in  the  west  yonder.  In  two  hours  from 
now,  ma  belle,  you  will  drive  me  back  to  the  village  through 
a  perfect  blaze  of  sunset  glory.  Meantime  we  have  the 
house  to  see,  luncheon  to  eat,  and,  by  the  same  token,  I 
wish  your  old  lady  would  hurry.  It  may  seem  unromantic, 
Miss  Forrester,  but " 

"  You  have  had  no  dinner  and  are  famished,"  laughs 
France.  "  Here  comes  Mrs.  Mathews  now,  to  announce 
that  our  banquet  is  ready." 

Mrs.  Mathews  enters,  unutterably  respectable  to  look  at, 
in  her  stiff,  black  silk,  and  widow's  cap.  Yes,  luncheon  is 
ready,  and  as  Mrs.  Mathews  makes  the  announcement,  she 
gazes  with  strange  intensity  into  the  face  of  the  tall,  bearded 
stranger.  She  remembers  her  young  master  as  though  she 
had  seen  him  but  yesterday,  and  how  like  this  gentleman  is 
to  him  none  but  Mrs.  Mathews  can  realize.  His  eyes,  his 
expression,  the  very  trick  of  manner  with  which  he  shakes 
back  his  thick  brown  hair.  Her  master  returned  !  It  can 
not  be,  else  surely  Miss  France  must  know  it  ;  and  yet — 
and  yet  —  the  house-keeper's  eyes  followed  him  as  one 
fascinated. 


234  "GORDON  CARYLL." 

She  wails  upon  them.  It  is  a  very  merry  lil  tie  repast. 
In  spite  of  love's  delirium  they  both  enjoy  the  creature  com 
forts  provided.  Mr.  Locksley  is  really  hungry — does  the 
grande  passion  ever  impair  a  healthy  man's  appetite?  It 
does  France  good  to  see  him  eat.  And  then,  luncheon 
over,  they  saunter  away  to  look  at  the  rooms. 

Locksley' s  prediction  concerning  the  weather  is  already 
beginning  to  be  fulfilled.  The  afternoon  has  lighted  up 
once  more — the  sun,  behind  its  veil  of  clouds  still,  will  be 
out  in  full  splendor  presently ;  the  rain  falls,  but  gently. 
The  swift  August  storm  is  spent. 

"  We  shall  have  a  delicious  drive  home,"  France  says,  as 
they  wander  through  long  suites  of  rooms,  drawing-rooms, 
library,  and  picture-gallery.  u  What  an  eventful  day  this 
has  been.  How  little  I  thought,  when  I  started  forth  « fetter 
less  and  free'  this  morning,  that  I  should  wear  captive  chains 
before  night ;  I  am  glad  Lady  Dynely  is  away — she  would 
be  certain  to  read  all  my  wrongdoing  in  my  guilty  face  upon 
my  return,  and  to  sit  down  and  tell  her  in  cold  blood  so 
soon,  I  could  not.  It  would  seem  a  sort  of  desecration." 

You  are  sure  you  will  never  repent  ?"  Locksley  asks,  un 
easily.  "  You  have  made  but  a  miserable  bargain,  France. 
With  your  youth  and  beauty,  your  birth  and  fortune,  the 
offers  you  refused  in  the  season,  to  end  at  last  with  a  free 
lance,  an  obscure  artist,  whose  youth  is  passed,  who  can  give 
you  nothing  but  an  unknown  name,  and  a  heart  that  you 
took  captive  at  sight,  in  return.  My  darling,  the  world  will 
tell  you,  and  tell  you  truly,  you  have  made  but  a  sorry 
bargain." 

*  The  world  will  never  tell  it  to  me  twice.  Why  do  we 
talk  of  it?  1  love  you  ;  with  you  I  am  happy — without  you 
I  am  miserable — all  is  said  in  that." 

There  is  silence  for  a  time.  They  look  at  the  pictured 
faces  of  dead-and-gone  Carylls,  and  do  not  see  them.  At 
last — 

"  And  so  you  take  me  blindfolded  ? "  Locksley  says. 
"  You  ask  nothing  of  the  forty  years  that  lie  behind  me  ? 
You  give  me  yourself,  without  one  question  of  what  my  life 
has  been  ?  How  are  you  to  tell  I  am  worthy  of  the  gift  ?  " 


"  GORDON  CARYLL"  235 

She  looks  at  him  and  her  happy  face  pales  suddenly.  All 
at  once  there  returns  to  her  the  memory  of  Eric's  words, 
the  memory  of  that  hinted  at,  hidden  away.  "  obnoxious 
wife." 

"  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you,"  he  says  in  answer  to  that 
startled  look  ;  "  you  shall  hear  it  before  we  quit  this  house 
— you  shall  know  all  my  life  as  I  know  it  myself.  How 
many  more  rooms  have  we  to  see?  Whose  is  this  ?  " 

"  It  is — it  was — Gordon  Caryll's." 

They  pause  on  the  threshold.  The  sun  has  come  from 
behind  the  clouds  and  fills  the  room  with  its  slanting,  amber 
glory.  The  rain  has  entirely  ceased — a  rainbow  spans  the 
arch  of  blue  sky  they  can  see  from  the  tall  window. 

"  Nothing  has  been  altered,"  France  says  softly ;  "  every 
thing  is  as  he  left  it.  Books,  pictures,  pipes,  whips,  guns, 
—all!" 

They  enter.  What  a  strange  expression  Locksley's  face 
wears,  the  girl  thinks,  as  he  looks  around.  She  does  not 
understand,  and  yet  those  vague,  shapeless  suspicions  are 
floating  in  her  mind.  They  touch  nothing — they  stand  to 
gether  and  look,  and  the  yellow  sunshine  gilds  all.  The 
books  in  their  cases,  the  handsomely  framed  proof  engrav 
ings  of  dogs  and  horses,  the  pipes  of  all  nations,  the  side- 
arms  of  all  countries — dirks,  cimetars,  swords,  bowie  knives, 
the  gaudy  robe  de  chambre,  now  faded  and  dim,  thrown  over 
a  chair  back — all  as  Gordon  Caryll  had  left  them. 

They  quit  this  room  presently  and  enter  the  next.  It 
was  Mrs.  Caryll's  sitting-room,  in  those  long  gone  days,  the 
room  in  which,  as  the  twilight  of  another  August  day  fell, 
she  stood  and  banished  her  only  son  from  her  side  forever. 

The  bright  yellow  sunshine  floods  all  things  here  too  ; 
the  chair  in  which  she  used  to  sit,  the  work-table  and 
work-box  upon  it,  her  piano  in  the  corner,  the  velvet 
draperied  oratory  beyond ;  and  over  the  chimney,  one 
picture  with  its  face  turned  to  the  wall.  "It  is  a  por 
trait  of  Gordon  Caryll,"  France  says,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
for  something  in  her  companion's  face  startles  her  strangely  ; 
"  she  placed  it  so  on  that  last  cruel  evening  when  she  drove 
him  from  her.  So  it  has  hung  since." 


236  "GORDON  CARYLL." 

"Turn  it,"  Locksley  commands  briefly,  and  she  obeys. 
She  stands  upon  a  chair  and  turns  the  pictured  face  to  the 
light.  It  is  covered  with  dust.  Spiders  have  woven  their 
webs  across  it.  She  glances  around  for  a  cloth,  finds  one, 
wipes  dust  and  cobwebs  together  off,  and  the  boyish  face  of 
the  last  Squire  of  Caryllynne  smiles  back  upon  her  in  the 
sunshine. 

u  Was  he  not  handsome  ?  "  she  asks,  regretfully.  "  Poor 
Gordon  !  brave  and  generous  and  beloved  of  all — to  think 
he  should  pay  for  one  mistake  by  life-long  exile  and  loneli 
ness." 

She  looks  down  at  her  lover.  She  pauses  suddenly  ;  a 
wild  expression  comes  over  her  face.  She  springs  from  her 
perch  and  glances  from  the  pictured  face  of  the  boy  to  the 
living  face  of  the  man  gazing  gravely  up. 

She  sees  at  last — neither  years,  nor  bronze,  nor  beard  can 
deceive  her  longer.  She  gives  a  little  cry,  and  stands  breath 
less,  her  hands  clasped,  her  color  coming  and  going. 

He  sees  he  is  known,  and  turns  to  her  with  the  very 
smile  the  pictured  face  wears. 

"My  France,"  he  says,  "you  know  at  last  that  I  am 
Gordon  Caryll." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THROUGH    THE     SUNSET. 

]O  !  The  truth  is  out  at  last — the  desire  of  her  life 
is  gained.  Gordon  Caryll  stands  there  before  her 
— her  lover ! 

She  hardly  knows  whether  she  is  glad  or  sorry, 
she  hardly  knows  even  whether  she  is  surprised.  She  has 
turned  quite  white,  and  stands  looking  at  him  in  a  silence 
she  is  unable  to  break. 

Gordon  Caryll  laughs — the  most  genially  amused  laugh 
she  has  heard  yet. 

"  If  I  had  said,  1 1  am  his  Satanic  Majesty,  horns,  hoofs 
and  all,'  you  could  hardly  look  more  petrified,  more  wildly 
incredulous.  My  dear  child,  do  come  out  of  that  trance 
of  horror  and  say  something." 

He  takes  both  her  hands,  and  looks  smilingly  down  into 
her  pale,  startled  face. 

"  Look  at  me,  France — look  at  that  picture.  Don't  you 
see  the  resemblance  ?  Surely  you  don't  doubt  what  I  have 
said  ?  " 

"  Doubt  you  !  Oh,  Gordon  !  what  a  surprise  this  is.  And 
yet — I  don't  know — I  don't  really  know — 'As  in  a  glass, 
darkly,'  I  believe  I  must  have  seen  it  from  the  .first." 

"And  you  are  sorry  or  glad — which  ?  You  told  me  that 
the  desire  of  your  heart  was  Gordon  Caryll' s  return.  Gordon 
Caryll  stands  before  you — your  heart's  desire  is  gained,  and 
you  look  at  rne  with  the  blankest  face  I  ever  saw  you  wear. 
Are  you  sorry,  then,  after  all  ?  " 

"Sorry  !  Ah,  you  know  better  than  that.  Why,"  with  a 
laugh,  "  the  romance  of  my  life  was  that  Gordon  Caryll  would 
return,  and  that  I  should  be  the  one  to  console  him  for  the 


238  THROUGH  THE  SUNSET. 

bitter  past — that  I  should  one  day  be  his  wife.  And  to  think 
— that  my  dream  should  come  true.  Yet  still — " 

«  Well— yet  still." 

"Yet  still — more  or  less  it  is  a  disappointment.  I  had 
hoped  to  be  the  good  genius  of  your  life  in  all  things- -that 
my  fortune  would  be  your  stepping  stone  to  fame.  Now  I  can 
do  nothing ;  I  am  not  going  to  marry  a  struggling  artist  and 
help  him  win  his  laurel  crown.  The  heir  of  Caryllynne  need 
owe  nothing  to  his  wife.  My  romance  of  love  in  a  cottage, 
while  you  won  a  name  among  the  immortals,  is  at  an  end." 

"  Not  so.  After  all  it  will  be  due  to  you  the  same — I 
take  Caryllynne  from  you.  And  I  would  never  have  taken 
oft"  my  mask,  and  shown  myself  to  the  world  as  I  am,  but 
for  you." 

"  Not  even  for  your  mother's  sake  ?  " 

"  Not  even  for  my  mother's  sake.  How,  but  for  you 
would  I  ever  have  known  that  my  mother  desired  it,  that  I 
was  forgiven,  that  she  longed  to  take  me  back  ?  It  makes 
me  happier  than  I  can  say  now  that  I  know  it ;  but  of  my 
self  I  never  would  have  discovered  it.  What  was  done,  was 
done  ;  I  meant  to  have  walked  on  the  way  I  had  chosen 
to  the  end.  But  you  appeared,  and  lo  !  all  things  changed." 

"  It  is  like  a  fairy  tale,"  she  said  ;  "  I  cannot  realize  it. 
Oh  !  what  will  Lady  Dynely,  what  will  Eric,  what  will  youi 
mother,  what  will  all  the  world  say?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  surprise  Lady  Dynely  very  greatly,'* 
Caryll  answered  coolly.  "She  recognized  me  the  first  day 
• — I  saw  it  in  her  face — only  she  took  pains  to  convince  her 
self  it  was  an  impossibility.  I  had  been  gone  so  long  it  was 
impossible  I  could  ever  come  back ;  that  was  how  she  rea 
soned.  For  Eric,  well  it  would  be  dead  against  every  rule  of 
his  creed  to  be  surprised  at  anything.  He  will  open  those 
sleepy  blue  eyes  of  his  for  a  second  or  two,  and  lift  his  blonde 
eyebrows  to  the  roots  of  his  hair." 

"  Very  likely,"  says  France  ;   "  he  has  not  far  to  lift  them." 

"  I  wonder  you  did  not  marry  him,  France.  He's  a  hand 
some  fellow,  and  a  gallant.  As  unlike  a  battered  old  soldier 
such  as  I  am  as — as  the  Apollo  is  unlike  the  Farnese  Her* 
cules." 


THROUGH  THE  SUNSET.  239 

"And  yet  there  are  many  people,  of  undoubted  taste  too, 
who  prefer  the  Hercules  as  the  true  type  of  manliness  to  the 
Apollo.  Eric  is  very  handsome — absurdly  handsome  for  a 
man  ;  the  wife  of  a  demi-god  must  have  rather  a  trying  time  of 
it.  I  don't  care,  besides,  to  share  a  heart  that  some  scores  of 
women,  dark  and  light,  have  shared  before  me.  '  All  or 
none,'  is  the  motto  of  the  Forresters.  Are  you  sure,  sir,  I 
may  claim  all  in  the  present  case?" 

"  All — every  infinitesimal  atom.  I  offer  you  a  heart  that 
for  the  past  seventeen  years  has  had  no  lodger.  Before 
that,"  he  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked  at  her.  "  You 
know  that  story." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it — Lady  Dynely  told  me.     She  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Would  I  ever  have  spoken  to  you  else  ?  Yes,  she  is 
dead." 

He  dropped  her  hands  suddenly  and  walked  over  to  the 
window.  Beyond  the  green  hill  tops  the  sun  was  dropping 
into  the  sea — the  whole  western  sky  was  aflush.  The  spark 
ling  drops,  glittering  like  diamonds  on  roses  and  verbenas, 
were  all  that  remained  of  the  past  storm. 

She  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  looking  after  him  wistfully, 
with  something  that  was  almost  a  contraction  of  the  heart. 

"  Nineteen  years  have  passed,"  she  thought,  "  since  they 
parted.  Does  the  very  memory  of  that  time  still  affect  him 
like  this  ?  " 

She  remembered  the  story  Lady  Dynely  had  told  her — of 
how  passionately  he  had  loved  that  most  worthless  wife. 
Could  any  man  love  like  that  twice  in  a  lifetime.  The  wine 
of  life  had  been  given  to  that  dead  actress — the  lees  were 
left  for  her. 

"  France  ! " 

She  was  by  his  side  in  an  instant — ashamed  of  that  unwor 
thy  spasm  of  jealousy  of  the  dead. 

"  Am  I  to  take  this  day  as  emblematic  of  my  life  ?  Have 
the  rain  and  the  darkness  passed  forever,  and  will  the  end  be 
in  brightness  such  as  this?  It  has  been  a  hard  life  some 
times,  a  bitter  life  often,  a  lonely  life  always,  but  the  darkest 
record  you  know.  The  story  of  the  woman  I  married  and 
who  was  my  ruin." 


240  THROUGH  THE  3 UNSET. 

She  glanced  up  with  that  new-born  shyness  of  hers  into  his 
overcast  face  in  silence. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  all  to-day,  and  make  an  end  of  it,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  something  I  hate  to  speak  of — hate  with  all  my 
soul  to  think  of.  You  know  the  story — Lady  Dynely  has 
told  you,  you  say.  You  know  then  how  I  was  divorced, 
how  our  united  names  rang  the  changes  through  England 
and  Canada;  how  the  name  of  Caryll,  never  dishon 
ored  before,  was  dragged  through  the  mire  of  a  divorce 
court.  You  know  how  I  came  to  England  and  saw  my 
mother  and  Lucia.  Saw  Lady  Dynely,  told  her  all,  and 
bade  her  good-by  upon  that  other  August  night  nineteen 
years  ago — the  very  night  her  husband  died.  All  that  you 
know  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.     "  Go  on." 

"I  had  left  my  old  regiment  and  exchanged  into  one 
ordered  to  India,  and  in  India  the  next  twelve  years  were 
spent.  It  was  hot  and  exciting  work  at  first ;  little  time  to 
think,  little  time  to  regret.  The  horrible  mutiny,  of  which 
you  have  heard,  with  whose  bloody  and  sickening  details  all 
England  was  ringing  then,  when  women  and  children  were 
butchered  in  cold  blood,  was  at  its  height.  Who  could  stop 
and  think  of  private  woes  when  the  whole  British  heart  was 
wrung  with  agony.  It  was  the  best  discipline  that  could 
possibly  have  befallen  me — for  my  life  I  was  reckless,  the 
sooner  a  Sepoy  bullet  ended  a  dishonored  existence  the  bet 
ter.  But  the  flying  Sepoy  bullet  laid  low  better  men  and 
passed  me.  I  carried  a  sort  of  charmed  life — I  passed 
through  skirmish  after  skirmish,  hot  work  too  with  the  fierce 
black  devils,  and  never  received  a  scratch.  At  last  our 
slaughtered  countrymen  were  avenged  and  the  mutiny  was 
over. 

"Of  the  life  that  followed  in  India  I  have  little  to  say. 
It  was  the  usual  dull  routine  of  drill  and  parade  ;  of  Calcutta 
and  Bombay — of  hill  parties,  of  up-country  excursions,  of 
jackal  shoot/ ng,  and  pig  sticking.  Of  a  sudden  I  grew  tired  of 
it  all.  India  became  insupportable,  a  sort  of  homesickness 
took  possession  of  me.  I  must  see  England.  I  must  see  my 
mother  once  more.  I  sold  out  and  came  home,  and  came* 


THROUGH  THE  SUNSET.  241 

here,  and  heard  all  about  my  people.  My  mother  had  quitted 
Caryllynne  forever,  and  taken  up  her  abode  at  Rome.  She 
had  adopted  General  Forrester's  only  child  as  her  daughter 
and  heiress,  Miss  Forrester  being  ihen  at  a  Parisian  convent. 
Lady  Dynely  was  a  widow — she  too  was  abroad — she  too 
had  adopted  an  orphan  lad,  who  was  now  with  her  son  and 
heir  at  Eton.  That  was  what  I  learned  from  the  village 
gossips,  and  then  once  more  I  left  England. 

"  This  time  I  went  to  America.  There  I  remained,  ram 
bling  aimlessly  about  the  country,  trying  to  decide  what  to 
do  with  my  future  life.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  to  ascer 
tain  for  certain  what  had  become  of  the  woman  who  had 
been  my  wife.  Was  she  living  or  dead  ?  I  never  thought  of 
her  at  all  when  I  could  avoid  it,  but  that  thought  had  often 
obtruded.  Now  was  the  time  to  know  for  certain. 

"I  went  to  Canada — Quebec,  to  the  place  where  I  had 
seen  her  last.  The  lonely  house  on  the  Heights,  which  she 
had  chosen  as  her  home,  stood  silent  and  gray,  desolate  and 
uninhabited.  I  returned  to  the  town,  hunted  up  the  man 
who  had  been  its  owner  thirteen  years  before,  who  was  its 
owner  still. 

"  '  Could  he  tell  me  anything  of  the  lady — Mrs.  Gordon — 
who  had  been  his  tenant  in  that  past  time  ? '  He  pushed  up 
his  spectacles  and  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"  '  Humph  1 '  he  said,  '  that  is  a  very  long  time  ago.  Mrs. 
Gordon  !  Do  I  remember  her  ?  I  should  think  so,  indeed 
— no  one  who  ever  saw  that  face  was  likely  to  forget  it  in  a 
hurry.  Perhaps — would  I  mind  telling  him  ? — perhaps  I 
was  Mr.  Gordon — the  gentleman  whom  he  had  the  honor  of 
speaking  to  once  before  ? ' 

"  'It  can  matter  nothing  to  you,'  I  answered,  'who  I  am. 
I  am  interested  in  Mrs.  Gordon's  ultimate  fate.  Can  you 
tell  me  where  she  is  now  ? ' 

"  He  laughed  in  a  grim  sort  of  way. 

"  '  Well,  no— seeing  there  is  no  telegraphic  communica 
tion  between  this  world  and  the  next.  Mrs.  Gordon  is 
dead.' 

"  '  Dead  ! '  Whether  we  hate  or  love,  the  abrupt  announce 
ment  of  the  death  of  any  one  we  have  intimately  known 
11 


242  THROUGH  THE   SUNSET. 

must  ever  come  upon  us  with  something  of  a  shock. 
"  Dead  ! '  then  I  was  free  !  I  drew  a  long  breath — a  breath 
of  great  relief.  '  Will  you  tell  me  how  she  died  ? '  I  asked 
after  a  moment. 

"  '  It  was  a  very  shocking  thing — oh  ;    a  very  shocking 
thing,  indeed.     She  was  killed.' 


"''Killed.' 


"'I  don't  wonder  you  look  startled.  Yes,  poor  soul — 
killed  in  a  railway  accident.  Wait  a  moment — I  have  the 
paper  somewhere — I  generally  cut  out  such  things  and  keep 
them.' 

"  He  ransacked  in  his  desk — produced  a  Montreal  paper 
of  four  years  before,  and  pointed  out  a  paragraph.  It  gave 
a  detailed  account  of  a  very  terrible  collision  on  the  Grand 
Trunk  Railway,  of  the  loss  of  life,  the  list  of  the  wounded 
and  killed.  Among  the  killed  I  read  the  name  of  Mrs.  Gor 
don. 

"  *  Is  that  all  your  proof?  '  I  said  to  him.  '  That  is  noth 
ing.  Gordon  is  a  common  name.' 

"  *  Ah,  but  look  here.' 

"  He  turned  over  the  paper  and  pointed  to  another  place. 
'The  Mrs.  Gordon  whose  name  is  recorded  in  another 
column  as  among  the  number  killed,  was  a  lady  with  a  his 
tory  of  more  than  ordinary  interest.  She  was  of  a  beauty 
most  remarkable,  by  profession  an  actress  of  more  than 
ordinary  talent.  Her  history  must  still  be  familiar  to  our 
readers,  as  the  heroine  of  the  celebrated  divorce  case  of 
nine  years  ago.  A  young  English  officer  of  family  and 
wealth,  named  Gordon  Caryll,'  etc.,  etc.  In  short,  the 
whole  miserable  story  was  given  of  the  actress,  her  accom 
plice,  and  her  dupe.  '  Since  that  time,'  the  record  went  on 
to  say,  '  she  had  returned  to  the  stage  and  was  rising  rapidly 
to  fame  and  fortune  when  this  most  melancholy  disaster  ended 
her  brilliant  career.' 

"  I  sat  with  the  paper  before  me.  And  this  was  the  end 
— the  end  of  all  that  beauty  that,  among  all  the  women  I 
had  met  since  or  before,  I  had  never  seen  equalled.  The 
voice  of  Mr.  Bai  teaux  aroused  me. 

"  *  Every  year  from   the  time  she  left,  she  returned  for  a 


THROUGH  THE  SUNSET. 


243 


flying  visit  of  a  few  days,  to  settle  accounts  with  Joan  Ken 
nedy  and  to  see  the  child.  A  fine  little  girl  now,  and  her 
mother's  living  image.' 

"  I  stared  at  him  in  blank  amaze.  'The  child!'  I  said. 
*  What  child  ? ' 

"  He  pushed  up  his  spectacles  once  more,  and  scrutinized 
me  over  them. 

" '  Then  you  are  not  Mr.  Gordon,  after  all  ?  Mr.  Gordon 
Caryll,  of  course ;  I  mean  the  gentleman  who  married  her, 
and  who  divorced  her.  I  give  you  my  word,  I  thought  you 
were.' 

"'It  can't  matter  to  you  who  I  am,  my  good  fellow. 
Only  I  want  to  know  to  what  child  you  allude.' 

" '  To  Mrs.  Gordon's  child,  to  be  sure.  Born  in  the 
House  that  Wouldn't  Let,  a  few  weeks  after  your  last  visit 
here,  and  left  by  Mrs.  Gordon  in  charge  of  Joan  Kennedy, 
when  she  went  away.' 

"A  child  !  I  had  never  known  of  that — never  thought  of 
that.  I  sat  for  a  moment  quite  still  trying  to  realize  what  I 
had  heard. 

"  '  She  named  the  little  one  Gordon,  after  its  papa,  I  sup 
pose.  She  couldn't  take  it  with  her  very  well,  so  she  left  it 
with  Joan  when  she  went,  and  had  ever  since  paid  liberally 
for  its  support.  Once  a  year,  too,  she  came  to  visit  it,  and 
it  was  returning  from  that  ill-starred  visit  this  year  she  had 
met  her  terrible  end.' 

"  I  rose  up,  startled  beyond  all  telling  by  this  new  revela 
tion. 

"  '  W'here  does  this  Joan  Kennedy  live  ?  '  I  inquired.  '  I 
must  see  her  at  once,  if  possible.' 

"  '  It  is  not  possible,'  returned  Mr.  Barteaux.  *  I  know 
nothing  of  Joan  Kennedy  now.  Three  years  ago  she  mar 
ried  a  man  named  McGregor,  and  left  with  him  for  the 
Western  States.  She  took  Mrs.  Gordon's  child  with  her. 
She  could  not  have  been  more  attached  to  it  had  it  been 
her  own.  Since  then  I  have  seen  or  heard  nothing  of  her.' 

"  '  Can  I  not  obtain  her  address  ?' 

"  '  Not  here,  sir — no  one  knows  where  they  went.  Me- 
Gregor  had  no  particular  location  in  view.  You  might  ad- 


244  THROUGH   THE  SUNSET. 

vertise  in  New  York  and  Western  papers,  and  see  what 
will  come  of  it. ' 

"  I  followed  his  advice — I  did  advertise,  again  and  again, 
but  with  no  result.  I  wanted  intensely  to  find  that  child.  I 
travelled  West,  I  inquired  everywhere — in  vain.  Then  the 
civil  war  broke  out,  and  I  joined  the  army.  Two  more 
years  passed,  and  then  in  one  of  the  great  battles  I  received 
a  wound  that  was  so  nearly  mortal  as  to  incapacitate  me 
from  further  fighting.  The  moment  I  could  quit  hospital, 
I  returned  to  Europe — went  at  once  to  Rome,  and  took  to 
painting,  as  the  one  last  ambition  and  love  of  my  life.  In 
Rome  I  saw  you,  saw  my  mother  many  times,  but  I  held 
aloof.  I  only  knew  I  had  driven  her  from  England,  that 
my  dishonor  clung  to  her  like  a  garment.  I  had  no  thought 
but  if  I  came  before  her  I  should  be  spurned  once  more. 
That  I  did  not  choose  to  bear.  Then  my  restless  familiar 
again  took  possession  of  me — I  came  back  to  England.  I 
painted  that  picture,  sent  it  to  the  Academy,  and  there,  one 
sunny  May  afternoon,  met  my  fate  and  you.  " 

"  And  that  picture,"  France  said,  speaking  as  he  paused 
and  looked  fondly  down  upon  her,  "'  How  the  Night  Fell,' 
was  your  parting  with  her,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  was." 

"  Poor  soul !  Ah,  Gordon  !  she  was  to  be  pitied,  after  all. 
She  loved  you  and  lost  you.  I  can  think  of  no  bitterer  fate." 

"Don't  waste  your  pity,  France.  Of  love,  as  you  under 
stand  it,  she  knew  nothing.  Good  heavens !  what  an 
utterly  vile  and  cold-blooded  plot  it  was  ]  and  what  an  easy- 
dupe  she  and  that  scoundrelly  old  major  found  in  me  ! 
Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  I  have  told  you — so  let  it  end. 
I  never  want  to  speak  of  her  while  I  live  again.  Only — I 
should  have  liked  to  find  that  child." 

They  stand  silently,  side  by  side.  The  sun  has  set,  but 
the  sky  is  all  rosy,  and  purple  and  golden,  with  the  glory  it 
has  left.  France  pulls  out  her  watch. 

"  Seven.  How  the  hours  have  flown.  I  should  have 
started  long  ago — it  will  be  quite  dark  before  I  reach  the 
Abbey  now.  Do  order  round  the  phaeton,  Gordon,  whilst  I 
run  up  and  put  on  my  hat." 


THROUGH   THE  SUNSET.  245 

She  quits  his  side  and  runs  lightly  up  the  polished  oaken 
stairs,  singing  as  she  goes  for  very  gladness  of  heart.  She 
has  always  loved  the  dear  old  house  ;  she  will  love  it  no\v 
more  than  ever,  since  in  it  she  has  been  so  supremely  happy. 

She  adjusts  the  coquettish  little  bonnet  and  returns. 

The  lord  of  the  manor,  stately  and  tall,  a  very  man  of  men, 
France  thinks,  awaits  her  and  assists  her  in.  He  gathers  up 
the  reins  as  one  who  has  the  right,  and  drives  her  at  a  spanking 
pace  away  from  Caryllynne.  The  broad  yellow  moon  is  lifting 
her  luminous  face  over  the  pearl  and  silver  sky,  the  rose  and 
amethyst  splendor  is  fading  tenderly  out  of  the  west.  She 
sits  beside  him  in  silence,  too  happy  to  talk  much.  All  her  life 
dreams  are  realized.  Her  artist  lover  is  hers — and  he  and 
Gordon  Caryll  are  one.  She  has  been  wooed  and  won  as 
romantically  as  the  most  romantic  girl  could  desire.  His 
voice  breaks  the  spell. 

"  I  start  for  Rome  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  She  looks  up  for  an  instant.  "Gor 
don  !  so  soon  ?  " 

"  She  has  waited  sixteen  years,"  he  answers.  "  Can  I  go 
too  speedily  ?  Yet  if  you — " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  It  is  her  right,  it  is  your  duty.  You  must 
go.  Only  you  will  not  stay  very  long  ?  " 

The  nightingales  are  singing  in  the  woods  of  Caryllynne — 
they  alone  may  hear  his  answer. 

He  drives  her  to  the  Abbey  gates — he  will  not  enter.  He 
will  walk  back  to  the  village,  he  tells  her  ;  he  needs  a  walk 
and  a  smoke,  to  calm  his  mind  after  all  this. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  to-morrow  before  you  go  ?  "  she  asks. 

"I  think  not — no,  I  will  leave  by  the  first  train — it  would 
be  too  early.  Our  parting  will  be  to-night.  Tell  Lady 
Dynely ;  and  let  wonder  be  over  before  I  return." 

Then  under  the  black  shadows  of  the  chestnut  trees  they 
clasp  hands  and  say  farewell. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

KILLING  THE  FATTED  CALF. 

[HE  golden  summer  days  are  over.  September  is  at 
an  end — the  sharp  crack  of  the  fowling-pieces  no 
longer  rings  the  long  days  through,  as  the  doomed 
partridges  wheel  in  the  sun.  The  ides  of  October 
are  here — the  steel-gray  mornings,  the  frost-bound  nights,  the 
stripped  branches  of  the  tossing  trees,  the  shrill  wild  winds. 
It  is  October,  the  last  week  of  the  month,  the  last  hour  of 
the  day  ;  and  the  night  which  the  white  chill  moon  is  herald 
ing  even  now,  is  to  be  a  grand  field  night  at  Dynely  Abbey. 
For  my  lady  gives  a  ball,  the  first  for  many  a  year ;  half 
the  county  are  invited,  and  all  invited  are  coming.  Has  not 
the  news  spread  ; — has  not  Gordon  Caryll,  the  black  sheep  of 
the  flock,  the  "hero  of  a  hundred  battles,"  whose  life  reads, 
so  far  as  they  know  it,  like  a  chapter  from  some  old  romance, 
returned  to  claim  his  own,  and  are  they  not  to  behold  him  to 
night  ?  It  has  been  something  more  than  the  ordinary  nine 
days'  wonder,  this  story  that  has  been  told  of  him  ;  these  good 
people  in  a  circuit  of  twenty  miles  have  talked  of  nothing  it 
would  seem  since  it  came  out  first.  They  can  recall  him  well, 
scores  of  them — a  tall,  fair-haired,  handsome  lad,  a  dashing 
young  trooper  before  he  left  for  that  transatlantic  world, 
where  he  met  the  siren  who  has  been  his  doom.  It  all  comes 
back  to  them,  the  first  dark  whisperings  of  that  terrible  scandal 
that  broke  his  haughty  father's  heart,  that  drove  his  mother 
into  exile  forever.  Then  the  full  details  of  the  story — the 
public  shame,  the  divorce,  the  return,  the  decree  of  banish 
ment.  They  had  all  thought  him  dead,  and  France  Forrester 
the  heiress  of  Caryllynne,  and  lo !  he  starts  up  all  in  a 
moment,  a  distinguished  and  popular  artist,  and  the 
accepted  lover  of  his  mother's  heiress.  He  has  been  in  Rome 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF.  247 

all  these  weeks,  visiting  that  mother  herself;  publicly  and 
joyfully  recognized  and  received  by  her,  and  to-night  he 
returns,  and  they  will  see  him  face  to  face  at  Lady  Dynely's, 

At  Lady  Dynely's  !  Why,  in  the  days  that  are  gone, 
when  he  was  but  the  merest  lad,  there  was  an  old  story  that 
he  was  his  cousin's  lover.  She  has  not  seen  him  yet  in  his 
new  character — it  will  be  curious  to  watch  them,  the  friends 
and  neighbors  maliciously  think.  And  France  Forrester  is 
to  marry  him.  Is  the  actress  wife  dead  then,  they  wonder  ? 
They  had  thought  Miss  Forrester  and  Lord  Dynely  were  en 
gaged,  and  now  it  comes  out  that  Lord  Dynely  is  to  marry 
a  clergyman's  daughter  in  Lincolnshire — a  Miss  Higgins. 
Miss  Higgins  is  to  be  present  also  to-night — she  and  her 
father  and  one  of  her  sisters  are  expected  this  evening. 
Certainly  a  treat  is  in  store  for  them — not  one  who  is  invited 
will  miss  coming. 

As  the  last  light  of  day  fades  out  and  the  white  starry 
moonlight  floods  earth  and  sky,  Lady  Dynely  comes  out  of 
her  dressing-room.  In  the  clustering  waxlights  she  looks 
pale,  pale  even  for  her  who  is  always  pale,  but  fair  and  youth 
ful  and  elegant  in  her  trailing  violet  velvet,  her  priceless 
point  lace,  and  the  Dynely  diamonds  flashing  on  slender 
throat  and  wrists  and  hands.  The  very  first  of  her  guests 
will  not  arrive  for  a  full  hour  yet,  but  she  has  dressed  early, 
and  stands  quite  alone,  glad  to  be  alone  for  a  little  before  it 
all  begins.  Up  in  her  room  France  is  dressing — in  theirs 
Crystal  and  Crystal's  sister  are  dressing  likewise — Eric  is  in 
his — Terry  in  his.  For  Terry  has  broken  through  his  reso 
lution  of  not  putting  in  an  appearance  before  Christmas,  and 
run  down  for  a  night.  Lady  Dynely  has  ordained  it  so,  and 
Terry  kno\vs  no  will  of  his  own  where  she  wills  otherwise. 
The  first  sharp,  cruel  pain  of  loss  is  not  even  yet  obliterated 
— all  his  life  long,  though  he  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  no  other 
woman  will  ever  be  to  him  quite  what  little  Crystal  Higgins 
has  been.  In  no  way  is  she  at  all  remarkable  ;  pretty,  but 
scores  he  sees  every  day  are  as  pretty  ;  not  brilliant,  not 
wise,  not  clever,  and  yet — she  will  stand  alone  among  all 
womanhood  forever  and  ever  to  Terry  Dennison.  He  has 
not  met  her  yet.  She  reached  the  Abbey  early  in  the  after- 


248  KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 

noon,  he  not  half  an  hour  since,  and  he  looks  forward  to  the 
meeting  with  nervous  dread  that  half  unmans  him.  She  is 
Eric's  now — well,  so  that  Eric  is  loyal,  so  that  Eric  makes 
her  life  happy,  he  can  forgive  even  him.  On  New  Year's 
eve  she  is  to  be  Eric's  wife,  and  he  is  bidden  to  the  wed 
ding.  He  has  had  an  interview  with  Lady  Dynely — of  ne 
cessity  very  brief.  All  his  generosity,  all  Eric's  disloyalty 
is  in  her  mind  as  she  comes  forward  to  meet  him,  and  takes 
his  hand  in  hers  and  holds  it  tight,  and  looks  with  pale  im 
ploring  eyes  up  in  his  face — a  face  that  is  just  a  thought 
graver  and  more  -worn  than  she  ever  saw  it  before. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  says,  simply,  knowing  by  intuition  what 
she  would  say.  "  So  that  Eric  makes  her  happy,  all  the  rest 
is  nothing.  I  don't  blame  him  much — her  not  at  all. 
Who  would  look  at  me  twice  beside  Eric  ?  " 

And  then  he  kisses  her  cheek  gently  and  goes  tip-stairs  to 
his  own  old  room,  and  meets  France  on  the  upper  landing 
on  her  way  to  dress. 

"  Dear  old  Terry,"  Miss  Forrester  says,  giving  him  both 
hands  ;  "  it  is  like  water  in  the  desert  to  see  you  again. 
Go  where  I  will,  meet  whom  I  may,  there  is  but  one  Terry 
Dennison." 

"  And  but  one  Mr.  Locksley — no,  I  beg  his  pardon,  but 
one  Gordon  Caryll.  So  your  hero  has  come  at  last,  France. 
All  your  life  you  have  been  worshipping  him  from  afar  off, 
now  your  demigod  has  plumped  from  the  clouds  at  your 
feet.  You  have  thrown  over  Eric  and  are  going  to  marry 
Caryll." 

"Thrown  over  Eric!"  Miss  Forrester  retorts,  forgetting 
grammar  in  indignation.  "  I  like  that  way  of  putting  it, 
when  everybody  knows  he  threw  over  me.  A  case  of  love 
at  sight,  wasn't  it,  Terry?  and,  amazing  to  relate,  it  seems 
to  last.  I  suppose  you  know  she's  here." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Do  you  like  her,  France?  But  you  do, 
of  course." 

"  I  don't  perceive  the  of  course.  She  is  pretty  enough — 
oh,  yes,  I  don't  deny  her  pretty  Grecian  features  and  pink 
and  pearl  complexion  ;  but,  like  hei  — that's  another  thing. 
Tattle  idiot  !  " 


KILLING    THE  FATTED   CALF.  249 

"  And  why  little  idiot,  Miss  Forrester  ?  " 

"She  jilted  you,  Terry,  for  him — a  man  for  a  ma:iikin. 
She  led  you  on,  and  would  have  married  you  if  he  had  not 
come  ;  and,  at  the  first  sight  of  his  ambrosial  curls  and  little 
amber  mustache  and  girl's  complexion,  she  goes  down  at 
his  lordly  feet.  Bah  !  I've  no  patience  with  her." 

"  But  you'll  be  good  to  her,  France,  all  the  same.  Poor 
little  Crystal  !  It  looks  a  very  brilliant  match,  and  yet " 

"And  yet  she  would  be  ten  thousand-fold  happier  as  your 
wife.  The  woman  who  is  lifted  to  the  honor  and  bliss  of 
being  my  Lord  Viscount  Dynely's  bride,  bids  fair,  once  the 
honeymoon  is  ended,  to  win  the  martyr's  crown.  The 
handsomest  peer  in  the  realm,  the  most  notorious  male  rlirt 
in  Europe,  is  hardly  likely  to  be  held  long  by  the  pretty,  in 
nocent,  baby  face  of  Crystal  Higgins.  It  was  awfully  good 
of  you,  Terry,  to  come  at  all." 

"  Her  ladyship  wished  it,"  is  Terry's  quiet  answer,  as 
though  all  was  said  in  that,  and  Miss  Forrester  shrugs  her 
imperial  shoulders. 

"As  the  queen  wills!  You  should  have  been  born  of 
the  Dynely  blood  and  race ;  the  motto  of  the  house  suits 
you — '  Loyal  au  mart.'  You  would  be  faithful  to  the  death, 
Terry,  I  think.  It  certainly  does  not  suit  Eric — it  is  not  in 
him  to  be  faithful  to  any  human  being." 

"  I  wish  he  heard  you,  France." 

"  He  has  heard  it  a  thousand  times.  By  the  bye,  Terry, 
it  occurs  to  me  to  ask  exactly  what  relation  are  you  to  Eric  ?  " 

The  clustering  wax  lights  shed  their  lustre  full  upon  Ter 
ry's  face,  and,  as  she  asks  the  heedless,  impulsive  question, 
France  sees  that  face  turn  dark  red  from  brow  to  chin.  The 
swift  abruptness  of  the  simple  demand  strikes  him  mute. 
The  truth  he  may  not  tell — may  never  tell,  and  falsehoods 
never  come  trippingly  from  Terry's  tongue.  Miss  Forrester 
lays  her  slim  ringed  hand  on  the  young  man's  arm. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  says,  hastily.  "  I  know,  of 
course — Eric's  distant  cousin ;  but,  as  you  stood  there,  on 
my  word  you  looked  sufficiently  like  him  to  be  his  brother. 
I  have  often  noticed  a  vague  resemblance  before,  in  height 
and  bearing  ;  but  never,  I  think,  so  markedly  as  now." 
11* 


250 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 


The  dark,  painful  flush  deepens  on  Dennison's  face.     He 
looks  at  her  with  startled  eyes.     She  is  wonderfully  acute  in 
her  surmises.      Has  some  inkling  of  the  truth  come  to  her  ? 
But  no — the  smiling  face  that  meets  his  is  supremely  uncon 
scions.     She  pulls  out  her  watch. 

*'  Past  seven.  I  should  have  been  under  the  hands  of 
Pauline  an  hour  ago.  Ta,  ta,  Terry ;  run  away,  my  dear 
boy,  and  make  yourself  beautiful  forever." 

She  trips  past  and  vanishes  in  one  of  the  upper  rooms ; 
and  Terry,  drawing  a  long  breath,  goes  more  slowly  to  his. 

"  No,"  he  thinks  ;  "  it  was  but  a  random  shot  that  struck 
home.  I  am  Eric's  distant  cousin.  She  suspects  nothing." 

But  Mr.  Dennison  was  mistaken.  It  had  been  a  random 
shot ;  but,  as  the  red  light  of  guilt  flamed  out  in  the  dra 
goon's  face,  the  first  suspicion  of  the  truth  that  had  ever 
come  to  her  broke  upon  her  then.  She  had  heard  that  vague 
story  of  distant  kinship — she  had  heard,  years  ago,  that 
Lady  Dynely  had  made  a  pilgrimage  to  some  wild  region  of 
western  Ireland  and  brought  Terry  back,  a  little  uncouth 
waif  and  stray ;  she  knew  how  zealously  she  had  cared  for 
him  since — she  knew  of  Terry's  boundless  love  and  grati 
tude,  in  which  to  her  there  was  always  something  almost  pa 
thetic  ;  but  she  never  dreamed  there  might  be  more  on  the 
cards  than  met  the  eyes.  "  Sufficiently  like  Eric  to  be  his 
brother."  She  had  heard  what  manner  of  man  the  late 
Right  Honorable  Viscount  Dynely  had  been — Eric's  light 
headed  fickleness  was  as  hereditary  as  the  title.  Who  was 
to  say  that  Eric  and  Terry  were  not  brothers,  after  all? 
Yes,  that  was  the  secret  of  Lady  Dynely's  compassionate 
care — of  Terry's  humble,  patient  devotion. 

"Poor  fellow!"  she  thought,  "it  is  hard  lines  on  him. 
The  name,  the  rank,  the  wealth,  the  love — all  to  the  youn 
ger;  to  the  elder  brother  nothing.  Ah,  well!  as  poor 
Stephen  Blackpool  says,  'Life's  aw  a  muddle.'" 

She  sits  musing  for  a  while  under  Pauline's  practised  hands, 
then  her  thoughts  shift  away  from  Terjy  Dennison  to  Gordon 
Caryll.  He  will  be  here  to-night,  and  under  the  silk,  and 
flowers,  and  laces  her  heart  gives  a  glad  leap.  Since  that 
happy  evening  under  the  moonlit  limes  and  chestnuts  they 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 


251 


have  not  met ;  to-night  he  will  be  with  her  once  more. 
How  strange,  how  romantically  strange  it  all  has  been,  she 
think*.  From  earliest  childhood  she  has  heard  of  him.  set 
him  up  as  a  hero,  and  loved  him  in  her  girlish,  romantic  way, 
without  any  hope  of  ever  seeing  him.  And  now  he  is  back 
— her  own,  forever. 

''Hurry,  Pauline — hurry,  my  child,"  she  says  in  French. 

It  wrants  but  an  hour  until  his  arrival,  and  she  must  be  the 
first  to  meet  him.  Already  wheels  are  crashing  over  the 
gravel,  and  the  guests  are  beginning  to  arrive. 

There  is  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Please,  Miss  Forrester,  may  I  come  in  ?  "  says  a  timid 
little  voice. 

France  breaks  away  from  Pauline's  hands,  opens  the 
door,  and  sees  Crystal  standing  there  dressed  and  ready  to  go 
down  and  trembling  with  nervous  dread  of  the  ordeal.  She  has 
been  but  little  accustomed  to  society — until  the  coming  of 
Lord  Dynely  and  her  fairy  fortune  she  has  been  looked  upon  as 
a  baby  at  home.  To-night  she  must  do  credit  to  Eric's  taste 
— Eric,  the  most  critical  and  sensitive  of  mankind — must 
face  half  a  county  and  be  criticised,  and  see  Eric's  mortifica 
tion  in  his  face  if  her  country  manners  fail.  She  loves  him 
so  wholly,  that  the  thought  of  his  displeasure  is  as  death. 

T\vo  great,  imploring,  blue  eyes  look  up  to  Miss  Forres 
ter,  shy,  humble,  deprecating — the  gaze  of  a  very  child. 
She  is  afraid  of  this  stately,  dark-eyed  heiress,  but  not  half  a 
quarter  as  she  is  of  Eric. 

"  Please,  Miss  Forrester,  may  I  come  in  and  wait  until 
you  are  dressed,  and  go  down  with  you  ?  "  she  falters. 

France  takes  her  suddenly  in  her  arms,  all  her  prejudices 
fading  away  at  sight  of  that  pathetic,  baby  face,  puts  back 
the  feathery,  flaxen  hair,  and  kisses  her. 

"You  pretty  little  baby,"  she  says  ;  "come  in  and  let  me 
look  at  you.  My  dear,  I  had  no  idea  you  were  half  so  lovely." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Forrester" — Crystal's  pearly  face  flushes  rose- 
pink  with  pleasure — "  do  you  think  I  am  pretty  ?  Do  you 
think  I  will  do  ?  Do  you  think  Eric  will  not  be  ashamed  of 
me  ?  " 

"  Ashamed  of  you  ?     Well,  Eric   is  tolerably   fastidious, 


252  KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 

tolerably  hard  to  please,  but  I  think  even  he  would  find  it 
difficult  not  to  be  fully  satisfied  to-night.  No,  little  vanity, 
I  won't  flatter  you,  I  won't  tell  you  what  I  think  of  your 
looks.  Only  you  are  more  like  the  queen  of  the  fairies,  or  a 
'  lily  in  green  covert  hiding,'  than  any  ordinary  mortal  I  e/er 
saw.  Pauline,  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

Thereupon  Pauline  bursts  forth  into  a  vehement  French 
outpouring  of  praise  and  admiration,  that  brings  smiles,  and 
dimples,  and  blushes  to  Crystal's  shy  face.  "  Like  a  lily  in 
green  covert  hiding  ?  "  Yes,  the  poetic  simile  is  a  true  one. 
With  her  filmy,  gossamer  dress  of  palest  green,  her  pale  pearl 
ornaments,  her  paler  floating,  flaxen  hair,  her  pure,  pale  face, 
her  large,  shy  eyes,  she  looks  like  some  water  spirit,  like 
Undine  herself — a  lake  lily  in  its  green  array. 

Ten  minutes  more  complete  Miss  Forrester's  toilet.  Dark, 
and  stately,  and  tall,  entirely  self-possessed  and  at  her  ease, 
a  greater  contrast  than  the  two  could  scarcely  be  found  as 
they  descend  to  the  already  filled  rooms.  A  blue,  silvery 
silk  sweeps  behind  her,  silver  lilies  trail  in  the  rich  darkness 
of  her  hair,  looped  with  diamond  stars,  a  cluster  of  fragrant 
white  blossoms  in  her  hand.  So  Miss  Forrester  and  Miss 
Higgins  dawned  upon  the  view  of  the  best  county  society. 

Eric  is  watching  for  his  lady  love — Eric,  looking  ex 
tremely  patrician,  and  elegant,  and  his  eyes  light  as  they  fall 
upon  his  betrothed.  Truth  to  tell,  he  has  been  dreading 
this  ordeal  almost  more  than  she  has  ;  his  vanity  is  so  thin- 
skinned — so  much  stronger  than  any  other  passion  of  his 
life.  What  if  she  does  not  do  him  credit  to-night  ?  What^ 
— good  Heaven  ! — what  if  she  appears  looking  rustic,  or* 
countryfied,  or  dressed  in  bad  taste  ?  He  has  been  turning  al 
ternately  hot  and  cold  for  the  last  fifteen  minutes  as  he  stands 
here,  when  he  sees  her  enter  the  rooms  on  France  Forrester's 
arm.  And  then  doubting  and  fearing  are  at  an  end.  His 
heart  gives  an  exultant  leap,  his  eyes  light,  a  smile  comes 
over  his  lips,  he  draws  a  long  breath  of  intense,  unutterable 
relief.  Rustic,  countryfied,  dressed  in  bad  taste  !  Why,  she 
is  lovelier  than  he  has  ever  seen  her,  and  her  dress  is  the 
very  perfection  of  good  taste.  Yes,  the  country  parson's 
daughter  will  do  credit  to  Lord  Dynely  to-night. 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF.  353 

He  advances  and  takes  possession  of  her,  stooping  his 
fair,  tall  head  to  whisper  something  that  lights  up  Crystal's 
soft,  sweet  face.  The  worst  is  over  now,  she  feels  she  can 
face  all  England,  all  the  United  Kingdom,  in  a  body.  Eric, 
the  sovereign  lord  and  ruler  of  her  life,  is  deigned  to  be 
pleased  with  his  lowly  handmaiden. 

Miss  Forrester  is  surrounded  immediately,  she  is  besieged 
with  petitions  for  the  next  waltz,  but  she  declines.  It  is  her 
intention  not  to  dance  at  all  before  supper,  and  she  takes 
Terry  Dennison's  arm,  and  clings  to  him  as  her  rock  of  refuge. 

"  I'm  engaged  to  you  for  the  next  waltz,  Terry,"  she  says 
imperiously;  "not  to  dance  it  though — you  understand?" 

"  I  understand,"  Terry  gravely  responds.  "We  are  wait 
ing  for  the  hero  of  the  piece  to  come  on,  and  we  want  to  be 
disengaged  to  meet  him,  looking  cool  and  lovely,  and  our 
very  best.  That  is  a  very  delicious  thing  in  the  way  of  dresses, 
Miss  Forrester — misty,  silvery  blue,  a  sort  of  moonlight  color 
that  is  vastly  becoming  to  your  dark  complexion.  Being  in 
love  agrees  with  you,  I  think — I  never  saw  you  looking  so 
well  as  to-night.  Give  you  my  word  there's  nothing  half  so 
handsome  in  the  house." 

Miss  Forrester  bows  her  acknowledgment. 

"  Monseigneur,  'you  do  me  proud.'  The  first  compliment 
I  ever  received  from  Mr.  Dennison  in  my  life  !  But  you 
haven't  seen  all  in  the  house — you  haven't  seen  Miss  Crystal 
Higgins.  Look  yonder." 

Terry  looks.  Sooner  or  later  he  knows  it  must  come,  and 
he  has  schooled  himself  to  meet  her.  His  sunburnt  face 
pales  a  little  as  he  sees  her  leaning  on  Eric's  arm,  lovely  as 
a  dream,  happy  as  it  is  ever  given  mortals  here  below  to  be. 
He  pulls  his  tawny  whiskers  and  tries  to  laugh. 

"Bliss  is  a  wonderful  beautiner — knocks  all  Madame 
Rachel's  cosmetics  into  thin  air.  Handsome  couple,  aren't 
they  ? — look  as  though  they  were  made  for  each  other,  and 
all  that.  Shall  we  go  up  and  pay  our  respects?" 

"  You  may — I  have  none  to  pay  ;  and  Lady  Dynely  beck 
ons — I  think  she  wants  you,  Terry.  When  you've  spoken 
lo  Crystal,  you  had  better  join  her." 

So  Terry  goes  up,  and  Crystal  lifts  those  imploring,  inno- 


254  KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 

cent  eyes  of  hers  in  humble  appeal  to  his  face,  and  tlie  look 
goes  through  Terry's  heart  of  hearts.  Ah  no  ;  she  is  not  to 
be  bl  imed.  She  has  done  as  eleven  girls  out  of  twelve 
would  have  done — there  are  not  many  like  France  Forrester 
to  look  upon  Eric,  with  undazzled  eyes.  He  pays  his  respects 
and  makes  his  greetings  in  frank,  brotherly  fashion  enough, 
and  requests  the  honor  of  a  waltz.  The  turquoise  eyes  glance 
timidly  up  at  Eric  as  if  seeking  his  permission.  For,  earlier 
in  the  evening,  Eric  has  issued  his  princely  ukase  that  his 
affianced  wife  shall  waltz  with  no  one  but  himself. 

"  I  don't  choose  to  see  my  promised  wife  gyrating  round  the 
room  with  every  fellow  in  the  county  who  chooses  to  ask 
her.  Remember,  Crystal,  you  dance  round  dances  with  me 
only  ! " 

She  is  very  willing.  If  he  had  ordered  her  to  sit  in  the 
remotest  corner  of  the  room  until  morning  dawned,  she  would 
have  obeyed  willingly,  gladly,  so  that  his  sultanship  deigned 
but  once  or  twice  to  smile  upon  her  in  her  exile.  But 
Terry  Dennison,  Terry,  who  is  almost  like  a  brother,  will  not 
Eric  make  an  exception  in  his  favor  ?  Eric,  who  is  to  have 
so  much — Terry,  who  has  lost  all.  But  Eric's  blonde  brows 
knit  themselves  ever  so  slightly  ;  to  Terry  he  is  not  disposed 
to  yield  an  inch. 

"  Crystal  only  waltzes  with  me,  Terry.  Scratch  your  ini 
tials  down  for  a  quadrille,  old  boy,  if  you  do  that  sort  of 
idiotic  performance,  and  do  it  quickly,  for  our  waltz  begins." 

Terry  does  that  sort  of  idiotic  performance,  scratches  his 
initials  accordingly,  then  seeks  out  Lady  Dynely.  Lady 
Dynely  merely  wants  him  to  make  himself  useful  all  night, 
in  finding  partners  for  unpartnerable  elderly  girls,  and  lead 
the  forlorn  hope  himself. 

"  It  is  what  Eric  should  do,"  her  ladyship  says,  "but  Eric 
won't  do  it.  If  he  dances  at  all,  it  will  be  with  the  youngest 
and  prettiest  girls  present,  so,  Terry,  I  look  to  you." 

"'England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty,'"  laughs 
France  Forrester,  passing  him,  and  giving  him  a  perfumed 
blow  of  her  fan.  "  My  poor  Terry  !  Some  men  are  born 
martyrs.  Some  have  martyrdom  thrust  upon  them  ;  I  begin 
to  think  you  are  one  of  the  latter." 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF.  255 

But  Mr.  Dennison  pulls  on  his  kid  gloves  a  little  tighter, 
braces  himself  for  the  battle,  and  looks  about  him  undis 
mayed.  Old  or  young,  handsome  or  ugly,  it  is  all  the  same 
to  Terry.  Since  Crystal  is  not  for  him,  all  the  rest  doesn't 
much  matter.  The  most  venerable  virgin  present,  the  scrag 
giest  matron,  are  the  same  to  him  for  this  night  as  the  Venus 
herself. 

"  Let's  see,"  he  says ;  "  there's  Belinda  Higgins— I'll  lead 
off  with  her.  After  that  I'll  take  'em  as  they  come — one 
down,  t'other  come  on." 

Mr.  Dennison  goes  and  with  polite  empressement  asks 
the  eldest  Miss  Higgins  but  one  for  that  waltz.  Eric  and 
Crystal  float  past  them  as  perfect  in  their  waltzing  as  in  their 
beauty.  Eric  whispers  something  in  her  pretty  pink  ear 
that  makes  her  look  at  Terry  and  her  bony  elderly  sister  and 
lauga.  It  is  the  unkindest  cut  of  all,  but  Terry  bears  it  man 
fully.  Let  them  laugh.  He  is  pleasing  Lady  Dynely,  he  is 
making,  for  the  time,  poor  old  Belinda  happy — he  asks  no 
more. 

Miss  Forrester  is  not  dancing.  She  is  growing  impatient. 
Her  restless  eyes  wander  ceaselessly  to  the  door.  He 
should  have  been  here  a  full  hour  ago  ;  the  train  was  due 
at  eight,  it  is  ten  now.  Can  anything  have  happened  ? 
Can  he  not  be  coming,  after  all  ?  He  telegraphed  this 
morning  he  would  be  with  them  by  the  eight  o'clock  train. 
Why  does  he  not  come  ? 

"Will  she  dance?"  Dance!  No,  she  could  as  soon 
think  of  flying.  She  gets  away  from  Prince  Di  Ventu- 
rini,  who  is  present,  and  who  dances  like  a  little  yellow 
Italian  angel ;  makes  her  way  from  the  warm,  brilliantly  lit, 
brilliantly  filled  saloon,  to  the  cloak  room,  throws  a  heavy 
wrap  over  her  shining  ball-dress,  and  goes  out  into  the  chill 
October  night. 

A  wild  autumnal  gale  is  blowing,  the  trees  rock  in  the 
stormy  moonlight  that  floods  earth  and  sky  and  distant  sea. 
She  goes  down  the  portico  steps  and  stands  alone  on  the 
white,  cold  terrace.  The  stone  urns  gleam  like  silver ; 
Ajax  in  marble  stands  with  his  face  uplifted  to  the  purple 
sky,  defying  the  lightning.  Above  the  roaring  of  the  gale 


256  KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 

she  can  hear  the  deeper,  hoarser  roar  of  the  far-off  sea, 
above  all  the  sweet  ringing  of  the  German  waltz  music 
within.  The  old  stone  Abbey  is  lit  to  the  roof — countless 
figures  flit  past  the  windows  like  shapes  in  a  magic  lan 
tern.  She  stands  here  alone,  wondering  why  he  does  not 
come.  Suddenly,  over  the  soughing  of  the  wind,  the  toss 
ing  of  the  trees,  there  comes  a  sound  that  makes  her  heart 
spring,  her  eyes  light — the  rapid  roll  of  the  wheels  up  the 
drive.  The  carriage  was  sent  two  good  hours  ago  to  meet 
him  ;  all  is  well,  he  is  here  at  last. 

She  leans  eagerly  forward.  Yes  !  the  tall  form  of  her 
lover  leaps  out  and  approaches.  He  sees  the  solitary  figure 
standing  on  the  terrace — the  pale,  expectant,  eager  face 
upon  which  the  white  moon  shines.  He  is  by  her  side  in 
a  moment,  and  France's  perfect  hour  has  come. 

"What!  waiting  forme?"  he  says;  "  getting  your  death 
out  in  the  cold.  Come  into  the  house  immediately.  How 
long  have  you  been  here  ?  " 

"Not  long — ten  minutes  or  more.  I  must  confess  to 
feeling  just  a  trifle  uneasy.  You  are  two  hours  behind 
time." 

"  And  you  took  it  for  granted  that  perishing  in  a  ball- 
dress  on  the  terrace  would  fetch  me  the  sooner,"  growls  Mr. 
Caryll,  but  he  takes  her  happy  face  between  both  his  hands, 
and  his  frown  changes  to  a  smile.  "  Yes,  we're  two  hours 
behind  time  ;  got  shunted  off — misplaced  switch,  something 
wrong  with  the  road — I  was  asleep  at  the  time,  and  knew 
nothing  about  it  until  we  were  under  way  again.  High 
jinks  going  on  within,  aren't  there  ?  Awful  bore  to  go  and 
dress  and  face  them  all." 

"  You  would  rather  face  a  regiment  of  Sepoys,  I  dare 
say ;  but  a  brave  man  never  shows  the  white  feather,  be 
the  danger  what  it  may.  Will  you  go  to  your  room  at  once  ? 
— the  dear  old  atelier  where  my  portrait  was  painted — " 

"And  the  unhappy  painter  hopelessly  done  for." 

"  Has  been  fitted  up  for  your  use,"  goes  on  Miss  For 
rester.  "  So  run  up  at  once,  get  into  regulation  costume, 
and  come  down  to  be  looked  at." 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF.  2^7 

11  Is  there  a  very  great  crush,  France  ?  "  Can  11  asks,  in 
dismay. 

"Three  hundred,  if  one;  and  as  Miss  Higgins  has  been 
stared  at  until  they  can  stare  no  more,  you  will  be  the 
cynosure  of  all ;  every  eye  will  be  concentrated  upon  you." 

She  laughs  at  his  blank  face,  slips  her  hand  through  his 
arm,  and  leads  him  into  the  house. 

"How  is  grandmamma?  "  she  asks  ;  "and  what  did  she 
say  ?  Tell  me  everything." 

"  Tell  you  everything !  They  talk  of  the  labor  of  Her 
cules  ;  but  to  tell  you  everything  *  grandmamma '  has  said  in 
the  past  seven  weeks  would  be  a  Herculean  task  indeed. 
She  says  this,  for  one  thing — that  you  are  to  join  her  in 
Rome  next  week,  or  a  week  after,  at  latest." 

"What!  with  you?" 

'*  Forbid  it,  Airs.  Grundy.  Oh,  no  !  we  don't  outrage 
tn»5  proprieties  in  that  fashion.  With  Lady  Dynely,  of 
course.  She  will  chaperone  you — will  she  not?" 

"Are  you  going  back,  Gordon  ?" 

"  Naturally.  We  part  no  more.  My  poor  mother  !  It 
is  something  to  be  loved  as  she  loves  me." 

"  She  knew  you  at  once  ?  " 

"  At  once — the  moment  we  met.  She  neither  fainted  nor 
screamed — it  is  a  wonderful  old  lady  ! — she  just  came  for 
ward  and  took  me  in  her  arms,  and  not  one  word  was  spoken 
on  either  side.  Outwardly  all  those  years  have  changed 
her  little  less  than  they  have  done  me  ;  she  is  very  feeble. 
She  would  have  come  with  me  if  she  had  been  able.  Not 
being  able,  and  longing  to  see  you,  she  bids  me  bring 
you  and  Lady  Dynely  when  I  go  back.  Will  vou  come, 
France  ?  " 

"Will  I  not?"  she  answers,  lifting  her  happy  eyes. 
"  But  my  stay  must  be  a  short  one.  Eric's  wedding  takes 
place  on  New  Year's  Eve,  and  I  am  to  be  first  bridesmaid." 

"  Bridesmaid  for  the  last  time,  then,"  say?  Gordon  Caryll. 
"  Pity  we  can't  make  it  a  double  wedding.  I  don't  see  the 
sense  of  waiting,  myself;  and  I  promise  you  this,  1  don't 
mean  to  wait  long.  When  will  it  be,  France  ?  January?" 

"  No,   sir ;  not  January,  not   February,  not   March,   nor 


258  KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 

April ;  not  a  day  sooner  than  May.  And  then,  \\  the  height 
of  the  season,  with  flying  colors,  if  you  insist  upcn  it,  we  will 
march  to  St.  George's,  and  you  shall  be  made  miserable  for 
life.  No,  it's  of  no  use  putting  on  that  imploring  face  ; 
when  my  decree  is  issued,  all  the  eloquence  of  men  tails  to 
move  me.  Go  up  to  your  room — you  have  not  a  moment 
to  spare,  you  are  shamefully  late  as  it  is." 

She  releases  herself,  and  hastens  back  to  the  ball-room. 
Near  the  entrance  she  meets  Eric  on  his  way  for  ices  and 
orangeade,  and  in  her  face  he  reads  the  truth. 

"  '  Lo  !  the  conquering  hero  comes  ! '  and  Miss  Forrest 
er's  eyes  light  up  their  lamps,  and  Miss  Forrester's  cheeks 
fling  out  the  flag  of  welcome.  I  had  about  given  up  the  hero 
of  the  night  as  a  laggard  in  love;  but  better  late  than  never." 

Half  an  hour  passes,  and  then  into  their  midst,  so  quietly 
that  but  few  find  it  out  for  the  first  hour,  the  "hero  of  the 
night "  enters.  He  makes  his  way  to  Lady  Dynely's  side, 
and  she  who  has  met  him  daily  but  seven  short  weeks  be 
fore,  greets  him  as  though  she  had  never  looked  upon  him 
since  that  August  night  by  the  lake. 

"  It  is  like  a  fairy  tale,"  she  says ;  "  I  cannot  realize  it. 
I  thought  you  dead,  in  spite  of  all  of  France's  hopes,  in 
spite  of  the  yearly  gifts  to  your  mother.  And  to  think  that 
we  have  you  with  us  once  more.  But  you  are  g-tatly,  won 
derfully  changed." 

"  Well,  yes,"  Caryll  answers  ;  "  a  dozen  years'  campaigning 
is  apt  to  change  a  man.  Still,  I  think  you  half- recognized 
me  that  day  at  the  Academy." 

"You  see,  I  could  not  realize  it,"  her  ladyship  answers, 
leaning  on  his  arm,  and  making  her  way  slowly  through  the 
rooms.  "The  voice  was  the  same,  and  the  eyes  ;  but  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  so  entirely  never  to  look  upon  you  more, 
that  I  wouldn't  admit  the  likeness.  Still,  it  drew  me  to  you. 
It  was  for  the  sake  of  that  likeness  I  wished  you  so  much 
to  accompany  us  here." 

"I  came  to  my  destiny!"  he  laughed.  "But  for  that 
journey,  France  and  I  would  never  have  arrived  at  an  un 
derstanding,  and  I  should  have  gone  down  to  my  grave 
1  Gordon  Locksley.' " 


KILLING    THE  FATTED   CALF.  259 

"  France  will  make  you  a  charming  wife,  Gordon.  1 
congratulate  you,  with  all  my  heart.  After  all,  you  have 
not  done  so  badly  with  your  life.  You  have  won  a  name 
for  yourself,  with  your  sword,  and  with  your  brush,  and  you 
nave  won  France  Forrester's  whole  heart — such  a  great, 
generous,  loyal  heart  !  I  had  thought  to  see  her  Eric's 
wife  ;  but  you  know  how  that  has  ended." 

"  Happily  for  me — yes  ;  happily  for  him,  I  trust,  also. 
Is  that  little  green-and-white  fairy  on  his  arm,  with  the  apple- 
blossom  face,  the  bride  elect  ?  What  a  model  for  Undine  ! 
Present  me,  Lucia,  will  you  ?  " 

Mr.  CarylL  is  presented  and  begins  the  business  of  the 
night  by  dancing  with  the  bride  elect.  As  France  has 
laughingly  predicted,  people  stare,  in  a  well-bred  way,  until 
even  curiosity  is  satiated.  The  hero  and  heroine  of  the 
evening,  meandering  through  the  Lancers,  are  the  observed 
of  all  observers.  France  dances,  too,  with  her  lover,  with 
Eric,  with  Terry,  whom  she  rescues  from  an  elderly-young 
lady,  with  unpleasantly  prominent  shoulder  blades,  and  un 
pleasantly  prominent  rouged  cheeks.  With  the  Prince  Di 
Venturini  last  of  all  before  supper.  As  this  dance  ends 
.Mr.  Caryll  advances  to  claim  his  property,  and  the  Neapoli 
tan  prince  renews  his  acquaintance  and  presents  his  con 
gratulations. 

"  Madame  Felicia  has  been  deploring  her  loss  in  your 
gain,  monsieur,"  the  prince  says;  "she  fears  now  she  will 
never  receive  what  you  promised  her — the  companion  pic 
ture  to  *  How  the  Night  Fell.'  " 

"  Did  I  promise  her?  "  says  Caryll,  carelessly.  "  Then  let 
madame  be  at  rest.  If  it  affords  her  any  pleasure  she  shall 
yet  have  the  companion  picture.  What  shall  we  call  it  ? 
'  How  the  Morning  Broke  ?  '  ' 

He  looks  at  France  with  a  smile  that  says  the  dawn  has 
come  with  her. 

"A  charming  title,"  cries  Di  Venturini.  "  May  I  ask  has 
nonsieur  ever  seen  Madame  Felicia  ?  " 

"  Never,"  Caryl!  responds.  "  She  was  playing  in  London 
last  season,  I  am  aware,  and  I  naturally  heard  a  great  deal 
about  her,  but  I  never  had  curiosity  enough  to  go  and  see 


26o  KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 

her.  I  was  very  busy,  and  I  had  long  lost  my  relish  for 
theatre-going." 

His  face  clouds  a  little.  Di  Venturini  looks  at  him  with 
small,  keen,  glittering  eyes. 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,  but  I  inferred  from  what  I  have 
heard  Madame  Felicia  say,  that  she  certainly  knew  you." 

"  Impossible,  prince.  To  my  knowledge  she  never  met 
me  in  her  life." 

"  Ah  !  my  mistake  then,  of  course.  She  will  be  charmed 
to  learn  that  she  is  to  have  the  companion  picture." 

He  bows  himself  off,  and  France  and  Caryll  go  into  sup 
per  together.  That  pleasant  banquet  is  prolonged.  When 
it  is  over,  a  little  knot  of  Miss  Forrester's  admirers  press 
around  and  plead  with  her  to  sing.  She  yields  and  is  led  to 
the  piano,  still  on  Gordon  Caryll' s  arm. 

"  Sing  '  Ay  Chiquita,'  "  some  one  says. 

She  points  to  a  pile  of  music,  and  Mr.  Caryll  tosses  it 
over  to  find  the  song.  He  places  it  upon  the  piano,  and 
Frances'  slim  fingers  float  over  the  keys  in  tender  prelude. 
He  is  replacing  the  loose  sheets  as  he  found  them,  when  all 
at  once  he  stops  still — stops  with  one  of  the  pieces  in  his 
hand  and  stares  at  it  as  though  it  were  a  ghost.  He  is 
gazing  at  the  outer  page,  not  at  the  music,  with  a  face 
from  which  every  trace  of  color  slowly  fades  out.  The 
song  begins — Miss  Forrester's  sweet,  vibrating  voice  fills 
the  room.  He  never  hears,  he  never  heeds.  Every  feeling 
of  sight  and  sense,  and  hearing,  seems  concentrated  in  that 
fixed  rapt  gaze  on  what  he  holds. 

It  is  a  waltz.  "  The  Felicia  Waltz,"  composed  by 
Prince  Di  Venturini,  and  dedicated  to  Madame  Felicia. 
Below  the  title  is  a  colored  vignette  of  madarne  herself, 
leaning  smilingly  forward — en  buste.  It  is  a  beautiful  face — 
even  this  highly-colored  lithograph  cannot  make  it  other 
wise — and  eyes  and  lips  flash  back  their  brilliant  smile  on 
all  beholders. 

So  long  he  stands  there  holding  it,  that  the  song  ends. 
There  is  a  murmur  of  pleasure  and  thanks  from  the  group 
about  the  piano,  but  the  singer  turns  from  all  for  a  smile  of 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF.  26l 

praise  from  him.  His  face  is  averted,  he  is  bending  ovei 
a  piece  of  music,  and  does  not  speak  a  word. 

u  What  is  it  you  have  there,  Gordon  ?  "  she  asks,  gayly, 
'*  that  holds  you  so  enchained  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  honors  my  poor  composition  with  his  closest 
attention,"  says  the  voice  of  Di  Venturini ;  "  or  is  it  madame's 
fair  face  that  holds  him  s[)ell-bound  ?  " 

Their  words  arouse  him.  He  lays  down  the  sheet  and 
turns  away,  but  his  face  still  keeps  that  startled  pallor  under 
its  bronze. 

"  A  fair  face  indeed,  prince,  and  one  I  have  surely  seen 
before,  though  the  name  is  new  to  me.  In  America,  or  Can 
ada  probably — niadame  has  been  there  ?  " 

He  listens  for  the  reply  with  an  intensity  of  eagerness  his 
outer  quietude  does  not  betray.  Prince  Di  Venturini  looks 
at  him  with  quick,  suspicious  eyes. 

"But  no,  monsieur — Madame  Felicia  has  never  crossed 
the  Atlantic  in  her  life." 

"  You  are  sure,  prince  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  sure,  monsieur.  I  have  it  from  madame's 
own  lips.  She  detests  everything  transatlantic." 

"  I  have  been  mistaken  then,"  Caryll  says,  calmly ;  "  I 
really  thought  I  had  seen  that  pictured  face  before.  It  is 
merely  one  of  those  chance  resemblances  we  meet  some 
times.  I  once  knew  a  person  who  looked  very  like  that." 

He  offers  his  arm  to  France  and  leads  her  away.  No 
more  is  said  on  the  subject,  but  through  all  the  hours  that 
follow  the  pale  gravity  never  quite  leaves  his  face.  And 
once,  when  all  are  dancing  and  the  music-room  is  entirely  de 
serted,  he  goes  back,  tears  off  the  page  that  has  the  pictured 
face  of  Madame  Felicia,  and  conceals  it  quietly  in  one  of  his 
pockets  for  further  inspection. 

The  chill  October  morning  is  gray  in  the  east  when 
the  last  carriage  rolls  away  from  the  great  gates  of  Dynely 
Abbey,  and  the  spent  household  betake  themselves  to  their 
rest.  But  for  full' an  hour  alter,  Gordon  Caryll  sits  in  his 
room,  that  picture  spread  out  before  him,  gazing  steadfastly 
down  at  the  gaudily-colored  portrait  of  the  French  actress  as 
though  it  held  him  by  some  sorceress'  spell. 


KILLING    THE  FATTED    CALF. 

"  Her  eyes,  her  smile,  her  every  feature,"  he  says  tinder 
his  breath.  "Can  there  be  two  women  on  this  earth  so 
much  alike  ?  Years  older,  but  the  same.  Had  she  a  sister, 
or — has  the  grave  given  up  its  dead  {  H*  w  /*ome  back 
from  Hades  itself  to  torment  me  ?  " 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

HOW   THE    OLD   YEAR   ENDED. 

|T  is  the  night  of  the  3ist  of  December,  and  the 
vicarage  of  Starling  is  bright  with  lights,  gay  with 
people,  merry  with  music,  and  festive  with  feasting. 
The  eve  of  the  old  year  is  going  merrily  out  in 
"babble  and  revel  and  wine."  And  to-morrow  is  pretty 
Crystal's  wedding-day. 

They  are  all  down — Lord  Dynely,  his  mother,  France, 
Terry.  They  have  been  here  two  days  now,  and  to-night  a 
score  of  guests,  intimate  friends  all,  crowd  the  quaint,  low- 
ceilinged,  comfortable  old  vicarage  to  repletion,  to  welcome 
in  right  merrily  the  blithe  new  year. 

Gordon  Caryll  is  not  here — he  is  the  only  absentee  of  the 
family.  He  is  back  with  his  mother  under  the  genial  Roman 
sky.  She  is  not  able  to  travel,  not  able  to  bear  the  rigor  of 
an  English  winter,  and  she  grows  more  and  more  exigcante 
in  her  old  age,  and  cannot  bear  her  restored  idol  out  of  her 
sight.  So  he  is  with  her  greatly  to  Miss  Forrester's  regret. 

She  and  Lady  Dynely  have  but  just  returned  from  Italy  for 
this  wedding  ;  they  go  back  for  the  winter  when  it  is  over.  The 
first  week  in  May  she  and  Gordon  are  to  be  married,  and, 
after  their  bridal  tour,  settle  down  at  Caryllynne.  Already 
the  workmen  are  busy  there,  beautifying  and  putting  it  in 
order.  Eric  and  his  wife  will  take  up  their  abode  at  the 
Abbey,  his  mother  going  to  her  jointure  house,  Dynely  Hall. 
That  is  the  programme. 

The  vicarage  rooms  are  full — the  gayety  is  at  its  height. 
A  set  of  "Sixteen  Lancers"  are  pounding  away  over  the 
drawing-room  carpet  to  the  piping  of  the  eldest  Miss  Higgins, 
who  adorns  the  piano  stool.  They  will  support  nature  pres 
ently  on  lemonade  and  negus.  Eric  leads  off  the  revellers ; 


264  HOIV  THE    OLD    YEAR  ENDED. 

looking  happy  and  handsome,  and  in  the  wildest  of  wild  high 
spirits.  It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  believe,  but  on  this  eve  of  his 
wedding  he  is  as  deeply  in  love  as  he  was  the  day  of  the 
memorable  picnic.  It  may  possibly  not  last— but  it  is  intox- 
icatingly  delicious  while  it  does  last,  and  little  Crjstal  is  ready 
enough  to  take  the  glitter  for  purest  gold.  For  Crystal — • 
well,  she  is  at  her  brightest  and  fairest,  too,  to-night.  There 
are  hot  red  roses  in  her  cheeks,  a  streaming  light  in  her  blue 
eyes ;  her  sweet,  foolish  little  laugh  rings  out  in  her  joyous 
excitement.  Even  now,  on  the  eve  of  her  wedding,  she  can 
hardly  realize  her  own  bliss.  Surely  it  is  the  most  wonderful 
freak  of  fortune  that  gives  this  darling  of  the  gods  to  be  her 
very  own  to-morrow  morning  at  eleven  o'clock.  It  is  eleven 
at  night  now — twelve  more  hours,  and  earth  and  all  its  powers 
will  never  be  able  to  separate  her  from  him  more.  She  lifts 
her  little  peach-bloom  face  to  her  partner  and  talks  and 
laughs.  As  a  rule,  she  has  but  little  to  say,  but  she  can 
always  talk  to  Terry,  and  never  half  so  gayly  as  to-night. 
Terry  is  her  partner,  and,  whatever  he  may  feel,  no  one  out 
wardly  is  happier  there. 

Miss  Forrester  is  not  dancing.  She  is  flitting  restlessly 
about,  here  and  there  and  everywhere.  The  rooms  are  gar 
landed  with  holly,  and  ivy,  and  mistletoe  ;  glorious  fires  are 
burning,  and  in  the  dining-room  a  long  table  is  set  out,  to 
which  the  gay  company  will  sit  down  presently  to  toast  the 
New  Year  in.  No  room  is  vacant ;  sentimental  couples  sit 
spooning  in  spoony  little  nooks,  go  where  you  will.  The 
vicar  and  Lady  Dynely,  a  portly  dowager  and  Sir  John 
Shepperton,  the  nearest  magnate,  sit  at  whist.  So  the  mo 
ments  fly. 

Presently  France  steals  away,  and  leaving  the  hot,  bright 
rooms,  goes  out  into  the  porch.  It  is  a  dazzling  winter  night ; 
the  earth  lies  all  white,  and  sparkling  and  frozen,  under  the 
glittering  stars ;  the  leafless  trees  stand  motionless,  their 
black  branches  sharply  traced  against  the  steel  blue  sky. 
Far  off  the  village  bells  are  ringing — bells  that  ring  out  the 
dying  year.  One  hour  more  and  the  new  year  will  have 
dawned.  It  has  been  a  very  happy  year  to  the  girl  who 
stands  there,  in  her  white  dress  and  perfumy  roses,  and  the 


HOW  THE   OLD    YEAR   ENDED.  26$ 

new  year  is  destined  to  be  happier  still.  Her  heart  is  full  of 
a  great  unspoken  thankfulness,  and  ascends  to  the  Giver  of 
all  good  gifts  in  eloquent,  wordless  prayer. 

Presently  the  dancing  ends,  and,  flushed  and  warm,  the 
dancers  disperse  themselves  about,  eating  ices  and  drinking 
lemonade.  Terry  leads  Crystal  to  a  cool  nook,  and  Eric, 
his  fair  face  flushed,  joins  them,  and  flings  himself  on  a  sofa 
by  his  bride's  side. 

"  Lend  me  your  fan,  Crystal,"  he  says.  "  Look  upon  me 
and  behold  an  utterly  exhausted,  an  utterly  used-up  man. 
Did  you  see  my  partner — did  you  see  that  stall-fed  young 
woman  who  has  been  victimizing  me  for  the  past  half  hour? 
It  was  the  most  flagrant  case  of  cruelty  to  animals  to  ask 
that  girl  to  dance.  1  saw  her  eying  you,  Dennison — there's 
your  chance,  old  fellow,  to  take  fortune  at  its  flood.  She's 
two  hundred  and  fifty  avoirdupois,  and  she  has  seven  thou 
sand  a  year,  so  I  am  told,  to  her  fortune.  Go  in  and  win, 
Terry ;  you'll  never  have  such  another  chance." 

The  young  lady  alluded  to  had  sunk  into  a  capacious  arm 
chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  her  face  crimson,  her 
fleshy  chest  heaving,  her  fan  waving  after  her  late  exertions. 

"You  see  her,"  says  Eric,  "the  sylph  in  green  silk  and 
pink  roses,  quivering  like  a  whole  cascade  of  port  wine  jelly." 

"Yes,"  answers  Terry,  looking  at  the  shapeless  florid 
mass  of  adipose  good-nature,  with  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes  ; 
"  only,  you  see,  it  requires  courage  to  marry  so  much,  and  I 
don't  set  up  for  a  hero.  How  she  does  palpitate — reminds 
one  of  the  words  of  the  poet  :  '  A  lovely  being  scarcely 
formed  or  molded — a' — France,  what's  the  rest  ?" 

" '  A  peony  with  its  reddest  leaves  yet  folded,'  "  supple 
ments  France,  gravely.  "  Terry,  what  will  you  do  through 
life  without  me  by  your  side  to  tell  you  what  you  mean  ? 
I  am  sent  here  to  order  you  gentlemen  to  take  some 
body  down  to  supper.  I  suppose  you're  booked,  Eric,  for 
the  green-silk  young  lady  ?  " 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,"  Eric  answers,  drawing  Crystal's  hand 
within  his  arm.  "A  lifetime  of  bliss,  such  as  I  look  for 
ward  to,  would  hardly  compensate  for  another  hour  like  the 
last." 

12 


266  HOW  THE   OLD    YEAR  ENDED. 

"Then  you  take  her,  Terry,"  commands  France,  and  Teny 
obeys,  as  usual,  while  Sir  John  offers  his  arm  to  Miss  For 
rester,  and  Lady  Dynely  takes  the  place  of  honor  by  the 
vicar's  side. 

It  is  a  very  long  table,  and  the  party  is  not  so  large,  even 
counting  the  nine  daughters  of  the  house,  but  that  they  all 
find  seats.  For  it  is  not  a  "  stand-up  feed,"  as  Terry  says, 
where  every  chicken  wing  and  every  glass  of  wine  is  fought 
for  d  entrance.  And  then  the  battle  begins — the  fire  of 
knives  and  forks  and  plates,  the  sharp  shooting  of  cham 
pagne  corks,  the  chatter  and  clatter  of  laughter  and  talk,  of 
toasts  and  compliments.  The  boar's  head  that  has  grinned 
as  the  centrepiece  with  a  lemon  in  its  jaws,  is  sliced  away, 
raised  pies  are  lowered,  wonderful  pyramids  of  amber  and 
crimson  jellies  are  slashed  into  shapeless  masses,  and  lobster 
salads  vanish  into  thin  air. 

The  moments  fly — the  last  hour  of  the  old  year  is  fast 
drawing  to  its  close. 

"Ten  minutes  to  twelve,"  cries  Lord  Dynely.  "  Here's 
to  the  jolly  New  Year.  Let  us  drink  his  health  in  the  good 
old  German  way,  to  the  one  we  love  best." 

He  filled  his  glass,  looked  at  Crystal,  and  touched  his  to 
hers. 

"  The  happiest  of  all  happy  New  Years  to  you,"  he  says, 
"and  I  am  the  first  to  wish  it." 

And  then  a  chorus  of  voices  arises.  "  Happy  New  Year  !  " 
cry  all,  and  each  turns  to  somebody  else.  Lady  Dynely 
stretches  forth  her  hand  to  her  son  with  a  look  of  fondest 
love ;  Terry  Dennison  leans  over  to  her  with  the  old  wistful 
light  in  his  eyes.  The  vicar  and  his  wife  exchange  affection 
ate  glances.  France  turns  to  no  one  ;  her  thoughts  are  over 
the  sea,  with  one  absent. 

Then  they  all  rise,  and  as  by  one  accord  throng  to  the 
windows  to  see  the  New  Year  dawn.  White  and  clear  the 
stars  look  down  on  the  snow-white  earth ;  it  is  still,  calm, 
beautiful.  From  the  village  the  joy-bells  clash  forth  ;  the 
old  year  is  dead — the  new  begun. 

"  Le  roi  est  mort ! — vive  le  roi ! "  exclaims  Lord  Dynely. 
"  May  all  good  wishes  go  with  him." 


HOW  THE   OLD    YEAR  ENDED.  26/ 

The  piano  stands  by  his  side.  He  strikes  the  k«»}s  with  a 
bold,  skilled  touch,  and  his  rich  tenor  voice  rings  spiritedly 
out: 

"  He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim — 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see  ; 
And  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me  ! 
Every  one  for  his  own. 
The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend; 
And  the  New  Year,  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 
Comes  up  to  take  his  own." 

"My  pale,  my  pensive  France,"  he  says,  "why  that 
mournful  look?  The  old  year  has  been  a  good  friend  to 
you  also,  has  he  not  ?  As  Tennyson  says,  '  He  brought  you 
a  friend  and  a  true,  true  love.'  " 

" '  And  the  new  year  will  take  them  away,' "  finishes 
Lady  Dynely,  with  a  smile.  "  An  ominous  quotation,  Eric. 
Let  us  hope  for  better  things.  And  now,  my  little  bride 
elect,  as  you  are  to  be  up  betimes  to-morrow,  I  propose 
that  you  go  to  bed  at  once,  else  that  pretty  peach  face  of 
yours  will  be  yellow  as  any  orange  at  the  altar  to-morro\v." 

So  it  is  over,  and  the  new  year  is  with  them.  The  guests 
not  stopping  at  the  vicarage  say  good-night  and  go,  the 
others  disperse  to  their  rooms.  There  is  a  farewell  which  no 
one  sees  between  the  happy  pair,  then  Eric  saunters  out 
into  the  white  starry  night  to  smoke  one  last  bachelor  cigar, 
and  Crystal  is  kissed  by  mamma  and  Lady  Dynely  and 
France,  and  takes  her  candle  and  goes  off  to  her  room  sing 
ing  softly  to  herself  as  she  goes  : 

"  You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
For  to-morrow  will  be  the  happiest  day  of  all  the  glad  New  Year." 

The  morning  comes,  sparkling  and  glimmering  with  frosty 
sunlight,  and  the  vicarage  is  all  bustle  and  gay  confusion,  a 
very  Babel  of  tongues.  Nine  ;  coffee — ten — dressing  ;  eleven 
• — carriages  at  the  door,  everybody  down  stairs,  and  the  su 
preme  hour  has  come. 

Up  in  her  "  maiden  bower,"  the  bride  stands  robed  for 


268  HOW  TffE   OLD    YEAR  ENDED. 

the  altar.  The  hot  red  roses  of  last  night  have  died  out,  she 
is  paler  than  the  white  silk  she  wears.  The  chilly  nuptial 
flowers  are  on  her  head,  the  filmy  veil  shrouds  her  like  a 
aiist.  Silent,  lovely,  she  stands  in  the  midst  of  her  maids, 
not  crying,  not  speaking,  with  a  great  awe  of  the  new  life 
that  is  beginning  overlying  all  else. 

She  is  led  down,  she  enters  the  carnage,  and  is  whirled 
away  through  the  jubilant  New  Year's  morning  to  the 
church.  There  the  bridegroom  awaits  her.  The  church  is 
full;  villagers,  friends,  guests,  charity  children,  all  assembled 
to  see  the  vicar's  prettiest  daughter  married.  There  is  a 
mighty  rustling  of  silks  and  moires  as  the  ladies  of  the  family 
flock  in,  a  flutter  of  pink  and  snowy  gauze  as  the  six  bride- 
maids  take  their  places.  France  is  at  their  head,  and  divides 
the  admiration  of  the  hour  with  the  bride  herself.  As  usual 
the  bridegroom  dwindles  into  insignificance — the  one  epoch 
in  the  life  of  man  when  he  sinks  his  lordly  supremacy  and  is, 
comparatively  speaking,  of  no  account.  Terry  Dennison  is 
there,  looking  pale,  and  cold,  and  miserable,  but  who  thinks 
of  noticing  him?  Only  France's  compassionate  eyes  look 
at  him  once  as  he  stands,  silent  and  unlike  himself,  with  an 
infinite  pity  in  their  dark  depths. 

It  begins — dead  silence  falls.  The  low  murmured  re 
sponses  sound  strangely  audible  in  that  hush.  It  is  over — • 
all  draw  one  long  breath  of  relief,  and  a  flutter  and  a  mur 
mur  go  through  the  silent  congregation.  They  enter  the 
vestry — the  register  is  signed — they  are  back  in  the  carriages, 
whirling  away  to  the  wedding  breakfast,  and  bridegroom  and 
bride  are  together,  and  the  Right  Honorable  Lord  Viscount 
Dynely  is  "  Benedick,  the  Married  Man." 

After  that  the  hours  fly  like  minutes.  They  are  back  at  the 
vicarage.  They  are  seated  at  breakfast,  champagne  corks  fly, 
toasts  are  drunk,  speeches  made  and  responded  to.  The 
bridegroom's  handsome  face  is  flushed,  his  blue  eyes  glitter, 
all  his  feigned  languor  and  affected  boredom,  for  the  time 
being,  utterly  at  an  end.  By  his  side  his  bride  sits,  smiling, 
blushing>  dimpling,  most  divinely  fair.  Opposite,  is  Terry 
Dennison,  trying  heroically  at  light  talk  and  laughter,  that 


HO W  THE    OLD    YEAR  ENDED.  269 

he  may  not  be  the  one  death's  head  at  the  feast,  but  his  face 
keeping  all  the  time  its  mute,  cold  misery. 

The'breakfast  is  over.  The  newly-made  Viscountess  hur 
ries  away  to  change  her  dress.  They  will  travel  by  the  af 
ternoon  express  to  London — thence  to  Folkestone.  The 
honeymoon  will  be  spent  in  Brittany — the  first  week  of 
February  will  find  them  in  Paris,  there  to  remain  until  the 
London  season  is  fairly  at  its  height. 

White  satin  splendor,  nuptial  blossoms,  virginal  veil,  are 
changed  for  a  travelling  suit  of  pearl  gray,  that  fits  the 
trim  little  figure  to  a  charm.  From  beneath  the  coquettish 
round  hat  and  gossamer  veil,  the  sweet  childish  face  looks 
sweeter  and  more  childlike  than  ever.  In  the  hall  below 
the  impatient  bridegroom  stands — at  the  door  the  carriage 
waits.  She  is  trembling  with  nervous  excitement  from  head 
to  foot;  she  is  but  a  frail,  sensitive  little  creature  at  best. 
Her  mother  is  weeping  audibly — her  father  coughs,  takes  off 
his  glasses  and  wipes  them  incessantly.  France  Forrester 
stands  with  dark,  tender  eyes,  and  in  her  heart  a  vague  feel 
ing  of  pity,  which  she  cannot  define,  for  this  fragile  looking 
child-wife. 

"  Oh,  Eric ! "  she  says,  laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  looking  up  at  him  with  those  dim,  dusk  eyes,  "  be  good 
to  her !  take  care  of  her,  love  her  always.  You  hold  that 
child's  very  life  in  your  hands  ;  if  you  ever  neglect  her,  if 
you  ever  grow  cold  to  her,  as  surely  as  we  both  stand  here, 
she  will  break  her  heart." 

He  laughs — nothing  irritates  him  this  thrice  happy  day, 
and  this  is  really  a  most  stupendous  joke. 

"/neglect  her!  I  cold  to  her!  When  I  am  either,  I 
pray  Heaven  I  may  die  ! " 

Slie  shrank  back,  something  in  his  words,  something  in  his 
look,  frightened  her. 

"  He  will  neglect  her,  he  will  turn  cold,"  some  inward, 
prophetic  voice  whispered ;  "  and  the  doom  he  has  invoked 
may  fall." 

One  other  heard  those  impassioned  words — Dennison. 
He  paused  a  moment,  caught  Eric's  hand,  and  wrung  it 
hard. 


2;0  HOW  THE   OLD    YEAR  ENDED. 

"Look  to  yourself,  Dynely,"  he  said,  in  a  hoaise,  hurried 
voice,  "  if  you  ever  forget  that  vow  ! " 

Then  he  ran  rapidly  up  the  stairs  and  disappeared. 

Lord  Dynely  looked  after  him,  shrugged  his  shoulders 
slightly,  and  laughed  again. 

"Poor  old  Terry  !"  he  said,  "  'the  ruling  passion  strong 
in  death.'  As  much  in  love  with  Lady  Dynely  as  he  ever 
was  with  Crystal  Higgins.  Ah,  well !  time  blunts  these 
things.  Let  us  hope  he  will  have  lived  down  his  ill-starred 
madness  before  we  meet  again." 

The  bride's  door  opens — a  flock  of  pink  and  white,  and 
sky  blue  nymphs  flutter  out.  The  bride  for  an  instant  re 
mains  alone.  Indifferent  to  what  may  be  thought,  may  be 
said,  Dennison  enters,  goes  up  to  the  new-made  peeress, 
takes  both  her  hands  in  his,  with  a  clasp  whose  cruelty  is 
unconscious,  and  looks  down  with  gloomy  eyes  into  the 
startled,  milk-white  loveliness  of  her  face. 

"  Crystal,"  he  says,  his  voice  hoarse  and  hurried  still,  "  I 
must  say  one  word  to  you  before  we  part.  If,  in  the  time 
that  is  coining,  you  are  ever  in  trouble,  if  you  are  ever  in 
need  of  a  friend,  will  you  send  for  me  ?  All  our  lives  we 
have  been  as  brother  and  sister — by  the  memory  of  that  bond 
between  us  let  me  be  the  one  to  come  to  you  if  you  ever 
need  a  friend." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  To  the  day  of  his  death  that  look 
haunted  him — so  radiantly,  so  unutterably  happy. 

"/  in  trouble  !  /  in  need  of  a  friend  !  "  she  repeated  in 
a  slow,  rapturous  sort  of  whisper.  "  f,  Eric's  wife !  Ah, 
Terry  !  dear  old  fellow,  dear  old  brother,  that  can  never  be. 
I  am  the  happiest,  happiest  creature  on  all  God's  earth  ! " 

"  Yet,  promise,"  he  reiterates,  in  the  same  gloomy  tone. 
"  Who  can  foresee  the  future  ?  If  trouble  ever  comes — 
mind,  I  don't  say  that  it  ever  will — I  pray  it  never  may — 
but  if  it  comes  and  you  need  help,  you  will  send  for  me  ? 
Promise  me  this." 

"It  is  treason  to  Eric  to  admit  any  such  supposition,"  she 
laughs ;  "  I  don't  admit  it,  but  if  it  will  please  you,  Terry," 
the  radiant  brilliance  of  her  eyes  softens  to  pity  as  she 
looks  at  him,  "  I  promise.  It  is  a  promise  you  will  never  be 


HOI'/    THE    OLD    YEAR  ENDED.  2Jl 

called  upon  to  redeem — remember  that.  No  trouble  can 
ever  touch  me.  Eric  loves  me  and  has  made  me  his  wife. 
Let  go,  Terry — he  is  calling." 

He  releases  her  hands,  she  holds  out  one  again,  with  that 
tender,  compassionate  glance. 

"  Good-by,  Terry,"  she  says,  softly.  "  If  I  have  ever  given 
you  pain  I  am  sorry..  Forgive  me  before  I  go." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  answers,  huskily.  "  No 
man  on  earth  could  help  loving  you,  and  all  women  seem  to 
love  him.  Good-by,  little  Crystal,  and  God  in  heaven  bless 
you ! " 

It  is  their  parting.  She  flies  down  the  stairs  to  where  her 
impatient  possessor  stands. 

"  I — I  was  saying  good-by  to  Terr}","  she  falters,  trem 
bling  already,  even  at  that  shadow  of  a  frown  on  his  god-like 
brow.  But  at  sight  of  her  the  shadow  changes  to  brightest 
sunshine. 

"  Good-by  !  good-by  !  good-by  ! "  echoes  and  echoes  on 
every  hand. 

The  bride  is  kissed,  and  passed  round  to  be  kissed  again, 
and  there  is  crying  and  confusion  generally,  and  in  the  midst 
of  it  Miss  Forrester's  wicked  black  eyes  are  laughing  at 
Eric,  who  stands  inwardly  fuming  at  all  this  "  confounded 
scene,"  mortally  jealous,  and  longing  to  tear  his  bride  from 
them  all  and  make  an  end  of  the  howling. 

It  does  end  at  last ;  he  hands  her  into  the  carriage, 
springs  after,  slams  the  door,  the  driver  cracks  his  whip,  and 
they  whirl  off  from  the  door.  A  shower  of  slippers  are 
hurled  after  them — then  the  carriage  turns  an  angle  and  dis 
appears,  and  all  is  over. 

****** 

The  guests  begin  to  disperse,  some  at  once,  some  not 
until  next  day.  A  gloomy  silence  falls  over  the  lately  noisy, 
merry  house — it  is  almost  as  though  there  had  been  a  death. 
Reaction  after  so  much  excitement  sets  in,  everybody,  more 
or  less,  looks  miserable.  Terry  Dennison  is  the  first  to  go 
— he  rejoins  his  regiment.  Lady  Dynely,  dowager,  and  Miss 
Forrester  are  the  next,  they  return  for  the  winter  to  Rome  ; 
and  Miss  Forrester  makes  no  secret  of  her  eagerness  to  be  oft 


272  HOW  THE   OLD    YEAR  ENDED. 

The  next  clay  dawns,  sleety,  rainy,  chill,  a  very  wintei  day. 
The  last  guest  has  left  the  vicarage  by  the  noon  train,  and 
the  depression  and  dismalness  is  more  dismal  than  ever. 
The  eight  remaining  Misses  Higgins  wander,  cheerless  and 
miserable  of  aspect,  through  the  lately-filled  rooms,  setting 
to  rights  and  taking  up  the  dull  thread  of  their  dull  gray  lives 
once  more. 

When  night  falls,  shrouded  in  sleety  rain,  the  dark  old 
vicarage  stands  sombre  and  forlorn,  despite  the  presence  of 
those  eight  bright  creatures,  under  the  inky,  dripping,  Lin 
colnshire  sky. 


PART  THIRD. 
CHAPTER  I. 

HOW   THE   NEW   YEAR   BEGAN. 

RAW  and  rainy  February  evening — the  first  week 
of  the  month.  Over  London  a  murky,  smoke- 
colored  sky  hung,  dripping  wet,  miserable  tears  ovei 
the  muddy,  smoke-colored  city.  The  famous  "  pea- 
so'.ip  atmosphere "  was  at  its  very  pea-soupiest — figures 
flitted  to  and  fro  through  the  murk,  like  damp  spectres, 
shrouded  in  great-coats  and  umbrellas.  The  street  lamps, 
that  had  been  lit  all  day,  winked  and  flickered,  yellow  and 
dismal  specks  in  the  fog. 

The  streets  of  the  city  were  filled  with  noisy,  jostling  life — 
the  streets  of  the  West  End  were  silent  and  deserted.  The 
deadest  of  all  dead  seasons  had  come ;  the  great  black 
houses  were  hermetically  sealed  ;  the  denizens  of  Belgravia 
and  Mayfair  had  flitted  far  away  ;  even  the  brilliant,  gas-lit 
emporiums  of  Regent  Street  were  empty  and  deserted  this 
foggy  February  evening. 

At  the  bay-window  of  one  of  the  great  club  houses  of  St. 
James  Street,  a  man  stood  smoking  a  cigar  and  staring  mood 
ily  out  at  the  dark  and  dismal  twilight.  The  wet  flag-stones 
glimmered  in  the  pallid  flicker  of  the  street  lamps,  few 
and  far  between  ;  drenched  and  draggled  pedestrians  went 
by.  Now  and  then  a  hansom  tore  past,  waking  the  grue 
some  echoes.  These  things  were  all  the  man  at  the  bay-win 
dow  had  to  stare  at ;  but  for  the  last  hour  he  had  stood  there 
12* 


274  How  THE  NRw  YEAR  BEGAN. 

motionless,  his  moody  eyes  fixed  upon  the  rain-beaten  glass, 
The  solitary  watcher,  stranded  upon  Western  London  at  this 
most  inhospitable  season,  was  Terry  Dennison.  Terry  Den- 
nison  who  yesterday  had  obtained  a  fortnight's  leave,  and  who, 
this  dreary  February  evening,  found  himself  in  the  old  familiar 
quarters—why  or  wherefore,  he  hardly  knew.  There  were  num 
bers  of  country  houses — bright,  hospitable  houses,  to  which  he 
held  standing  welcome — houses  where  a  "  southerly  wind  and 
a  cloudy  sky  proclaimed  it  a  hunting  morning,"  but  he  had 
thrown  over  all,  and  was  here  as  utterly  alone,  it  seemed  to 
him,  as  though  he  had  been  wrecked  on  a  deserted  island. 

The  five  weeks  that  had  passed  since  Christabel  Higgins' 
wedding  day  had  made  but  slight  outward  alteration  in  Terry. 
He  was  looking  haggard,  and  jaded, — the  honest  blue  eyes 
kept  the  old  kindly,  genial  glance  for  all  things,  but  they 
look  out  with  wistful  weariness  to-night.  Where  are  they 
this  wretched,  February  evening,  he  wonders — where  is 
she,  what  is  she  doing  ? 

Are  she  and  Eric  doing  the  honeymoon  still  in  the  leaf 
less  groves  of  Brittany,  or  have  they  gone  to  Rome  to  join 
the  Gordon  Caryll  party,  where  Lady  Dynely  and  Miss  For 
rester  also  are  ?  An  unutterable  longing  to  see  Crystal  once 
more  fills  him — it  is  folly,  he  knows,  something  worse  than 
folly,  perhaps,  but  before  these  two  weeks  of  freedom  expire 
he  must  stand  face  to  face  with  Viscount  Dynely's  bride. 

The  last  gleam  of  the  dark  daylight  is  fading  entirely  out  as 
a  hansom  whirls  up  to  the  door  and  deposit  sits  one  passen 
ger.  The  glare  of  the  lamp  falls  full  upon  him,  and  Dennisori 
recognizes  an  old  acquaintance.  As  the  man  enters  he  turns 
and  holds  out  his  hand. 

"What !  you,  Dennison?  My  dear  fellow,  happy  to  meet 
you.  I  saw  a  face  at  the  window  and  thought  it  was  Macau- 
lay's  New  Zealander  come  before  his  time,  to  philosophize 
over  the  desolation  of  London.  Beastly  weather,  as  usual. 
How  three  millions  of  people,  more  or  less,  can  drag  out 
existence  through  it — " 

The  speaker  flings  himself  into  a  chair  and  gives  up  the 
problem  in  weary  disgust. 

"  1   thought  you   were  in  Greece,  Burrard,"  says  Terry, 


HOW  THE  NEW   YEAR  BEGAN.  2/5 

throwing  away  his  cigar,  and  depositing  himself  in  a  second 
easy-chair. 

"Was,  all  January.  Gave  it  up  and  came  to  Paris,  to 
have  what  our  transatlantic  neighbors  call  *  a  good  time  ; ' 
and  just  as  I  was  having  it  (Felicia's  there,  you  know),  came 
a  telegram  from  Somersetshire,  summoning  me  home.  Gov 
ernor — gout  in  the  stomach — thinks  he's  going  to  die,  and 
wishes  to  have  all  his  offspring  around  him.  it's  the  fifth 
time  I  have  been  summoned  in  the  same  way,"  says  Mr. 
Burrard,  in  a  disgusted  tone,  "and  nothing  ever  comes  of  it. 
It's  all  hypo  on  the  governor's  part,  and  the  family  know  it ; 
but  as  he'll  cut  us  off  with  a  shilling  if  we  disobey,  there's 
nothing  for  it.  It  was  beastly  crossing  the  Channel,  and  I'm 
always  seasick.  It's  an  awful  nuisance,  Terry — give  you  my 
word,"  Mr.  Burrard  gloomily  concludes. 

"  Hard  lines,  old  fellow,"  laughs  Terry.  "  Let  us  hope 
this  time  that  your  journey  will  not  be  in  vain.  So  Paris  is 
looking  lively,  is  it  ?  No  February  fog  there,  I  suppose  ?  I 
shouldn't  mind  running  over  myself  for  a  few  days.  Many 
people  one  knows  ?  " 

"  Lots,"  Mr.  Burrard  sententiously  replies ;  "  and,  as  I 
said  before,  la  belle  Felicia  at  the  Varietes,  younger,  and  love 
lier,  and  more  fatal  than  ever.  Gad !  Terry,  the  divine  art 
of  petits  soupers  will  never  die  out  while  that  woman  exists. 
She's  a  sorceress  and  enchantress,  a  witch.  She  must  be  five- 
and-thirty  at  the  very  least :  and  last  night,  as  I  sat  beside 
her,  I  could  have  taken  my  oath  she  wasn't  a  day  more  than 
seventeen." 

"  Hard  hit  as  ever,  dear  boy,''  Terry  says,  lighting  another 
regalia.  "  I  thought  that  was  an  old  story — over  and  done 
with  ages  ago — that  you  were  clothed  and  in  your  right  mind 
once  more,  and  about  to  take  unto  yourself  a  wife  of  the 
daughters  of  the  land.  Have  one  ?  " 

He  presents  his  cigar  case  and  box  of  Vesuvians,  and 
Burrard  gloomily  selects  and  lights  up. 

"  You  know  Felicia,  Terry  ?  "  he  asks,  after  a  smoky  pause. 

Terry  nods. 

"  You  never  were  one  of  her  victims  though,  were  you," 
the  other  pursues. 


YEAR  BEGAN. 

"  Not  I,  old  fellow,"  Terry  laughs  good  hum  jredly. 
"  The  role  of  quarry  to  any  woman's  hawk  is  not  in  the  least 
my  line.  And  I  never  could  see,  for  the  life  of  me,  what 
there  was  in  belle  Felicia,  that  men  should  go  down  before 
her,  like  corn  before  the  reaper.  She's  a  monstrous  fine 
woman  for  those  who  admire  the  swarthy  sort,  which  I  don't, 
and  knows  how  to  use  those  two  black  eyes  of  hers;  but 
that  dancer  has  never  danced — were  it  the  daughter  of  Hero- 
dias  herself — who  could  quicken  my  pulses  by  one  beat." 

"  You're  a  cold-blooded  animal,  Dennison,  I'm  afraid," 
responds  Mr.  Burrard.  "  Your  insensibility  to  all  woman 
kind  has  passed  into  a  proverb.  You  always  had  the  entree, 
too,  when  Felicia  was  in  London." 

"  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  of  some  slight  service  to 
her  on  one  occasion,  and,  like  all  women,  she  magnified  a 
mole-hill  into  a  mountain.  So  she  is  still  as  fatal  as  ever — 
who  is  the  last  unhappy  devil  who  has  fallen  into  her 
clutches  ?  " 

"  Their  name  is  legion.  There  are  two  American  million 
aires  over  there,  ready  to  blow  each  other's  brains  out  about 
her.  There  is  an  Austrian  archduke,  with  five-and-twenty 
quarterings,  an  empty  purse,  and  the  bluest  of  sang  azure, 
ready,  they  say,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to  make  her  his  wife. 
There  is  Prince  Di  Venturing  who  has  come  to  his  own 
again,  since  the  young  Italy  party  took  the  reins — that  affair  is 
old  and  settled  ;  it's  an  understood  thing  if  she  behaves  he*- 
self  she  is  to  be  Madame  la  princess.  And  last,  but  by  no 
means  least  in  the  fair  Felicia's  eyes — since  the  bracelets,  and 
rings,  and  rubbish  of  that  sort  he  gives  her,  they  say  would  fill 
a  Rue  de  la  Paix  jeweller's  window — is  young  Lord  Dynely." 

Terry  has  been  lying  back  in  his  chair,  dreamily  watching 
the  clouds  of  smoke  curl  upward,  and  taking  but  a  languid 
interest  in  the  conversation.  At  this  name  he  sits  suddenly 
upright,  staring  with  round,  startled  blue  eyes. 

"Who?"  he  asks,  sharply  and  suddenly. 

"  Dynely — know  him,  don't  you  ?  Oh,  by  the  bye,  yes — • 
you  and  he  are  connections,  aren't  you  ?  Married  at  Christ 
inas — country  parson's  daughter,  didn't  he,  all  on  the  quiet  ? 
Well,  my  word,  he's  going  the  pace  now,  I  can  tell  you." 


HO IV  THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN. 


277 


"  Burrard,  do  you  mean  to  say  Dynely  is  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  Been  there  the  past  three  weeks.  Went  to  Brittany  or 
Normandy,  or  somewhere  for  the  honeymoon — so  I  was 
told  ;  found  love  among  the  roses,  a  week  after  matrimony, 
awfully  slow  work ;  most  men  do  in  like  case,  poor  devils ; 
set  the  proprieties  at  defiance — couldn't  serve  out  his  sen 
tence  ;  came  to  Paris,  and  fell,  like  the  greenest  of  all  green 
goslings,  straightway  into  the  talons  of  that  bird  of  paradise, 
Felicia.  By  the  bye,  birds  of  paradise  haven't  talons,  I 
daresay,  but  you  know  what  I  mean." 

The  color  has  faded  out  of  Terry's  face,  leaving  him  very- 
pale.  Mr.  Burrard,  with  whom  the  handsome  dancer  is  evi 
dently  a  sore  subject,  and  who  is  also  suffering  evidently 
from  an  attack  of  the  green-eyed  monster,  goes  aggrievedly 
on  : 

"  Never  saw  a  fellow  so  far  gone  in  so  short  a  time — give 
you  my  honor,  Dennison  !  He's  mad,  stark  mad,  running 
after  that  piratical  little  demon.  It's  early  days  to  leave  the 
pretty  wife  alone  in  their  big  hotel.  All  Paris  is  talking 
about  it,  sotto  voce,  of  course.  Did  you  know  her,  Terry  ?  " 

Burrard's  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes,  look  across  at  him,  and 
note  for  the  first  time  the  sudden,  startled  pallor  of  his 
face. 

"Yes — I  know  her,"  he  answers  slowly.  "How  is  she 
looking,  Burrard?" 

"  Never  met  her  but  once,  and  that  was  before  the  Felicia 
had  gobbled  her  husband  up  body  and  bones.  I  met  them 
driving  in  the  Bois,  and  I  remember  everybody  was  turning 
to  stare  at  the  little  blonde  beauty.  She  appeared  also 
one  night  at  an  embassy  ball,  and  was  the  talk  of  the  clubs 
for  the  next  three  days.  It  was  her  first  and  last  appear 
ance.  She's  there  still,  but  invisible  to  the  naked  eye. 
While  he  follows  Felicia  like  her  poodle  or  her  shadow,  the 
little  one  mopes  at  home.  I  wouldn't  say  all  this,  Denni 
son,  you  understand,"  says  Mr.  Burrard,  fearing  he  has  gone 
too  far,  "  but  it  is  public  talk  in  Paris.  Dynely' s  infatuation 
is  patent  to  all  the  world." 

The  face  of  Terry  has  settled  into  an  expression  Horace 
Burrard  has  never  seen  on  that  careless,  good-humored  face 


HOW   THE  NEW   YEAR  BEGAN. 

before.  It  is  set  and  stern,  the  genial  blue  eyes  gleam  like 
steel.  But  he  speaks  very  quietly. 

"  And  the  Prince  Di  Venturini  allows  her  to  carry  on  like 
this  ?  Wide  latitude  for  a  future  princess,  you  must  own. 
Accommodating  sort  of  Neapolitan,  the  prince." 

"  Understand  me,  Terry,"  says  Burrard,  answering  this 
last  sneer  rather  earnestly.  "I  don't  mean  to  say  Felicia 
goes  much  further  than  some  of  our  own  frisky  matrons  do. 
A  flirt  she  is  ct  entrance — she  would  flirt  with  her  own  chas 
seur  if  no  better  game  offered.  Beyond  that,  scandal  goeth 
not.  Di  Venturini  is  most  assuredly  a  man  who  can  take 
care  of  his  own,  a  dead  shot,  and  a  noted  duelist.  Madame 
is  also  most  assuredly  his  fiancee.  She  has  an  ame  damnee, 
who  goes  about  with  her  everywhere — the  widow  of  an  Eng 
lish  curate,  and  propriety  itself  in  crape  and  bombazine. 
But  she  takes  men's  presents,  fools  them  to  the  top  of  their 
bent,  cleans  them  out,  and  throws  them  over,  with  as  little 
remorse  as  I  throw  away  this  smoked-out  cigar.  '  One  down, 
t'other  come  on,'  that's  the  fair  danseuse's  motto." 

There  was  some  bitterness  in  Burrard' s  tone.  Evidently 
he  was  one  of  the  "  cleaned  out  and  thrown  over."  He 
arose  as  he  spoke  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Have  you  dined,  Dennison  ?  Because  I  have  order 
ed—" 

"Thanks — I  dined  two  hours  ago.  Don't  let  me  detain 
you,  Burrard,  and  good-night." 

He  went  slowly  up  to  his  room,  his  face  keeping  that  set, 
stern  look. 

She  has  no  father,  no  brother  to  take  her  part ;  I  may  be 
that  to  her,  if  I  may  be  no  more.  If  Burrard's  story  be 
true,  then  it  is  high  time  some  one  went  to  the  rescue." 

His  own  words  came  back  to  him.  Had  the  time  come 
already  for  him  to  defend  her  against  the  husband  she  loved, 
and  for  whom  she  had  jilted  him  ?  He  knew  Eric  well — 
knew  how  recklessly,  insanely,  he  tore  every  passion  to 
tatters — knew  how  little  hold  principle  or  fidelity  had  upon 
him,  knew  him  weaker,  more  unstable  than  water,  selfish  to 
the  core,  regardless  of  all  consequences  where  his  own 


HOW  THE  NEW   YEAR  BEGAN. 


2/9 


fancies  were  concerned.  And  into  the  keepirg  of  such  a 
man  as  this,  little  Crystal's  whole  heart  and  life  had  been 
given. 

"  If  he  is  false  to  her,"  Terry  ground  out  between  his  set 
teeth,  "  I'll  kill  him  with  my  own  hand.  Only  one  short 
month  his  wife,  and  neglected,  forsaken  already.  Oh,  my 
little  Crystal  !  My  little,  pretty,  innocent  Crystal !  " 

He  remembered  his  words  to  her  on  her  wedding-day : 
"  If  you  are  ever  in  trouble — if  you  ever  need  a  friend, 
promise  to  send  for  me."  She  had  not  sent,  poor  child  !  but 
she  had  not  forgotten  those  words,  he  knew.  He  would  go 
to  her — go  at  once.  While  Eric  was  kind  she  had  not 
needed  him — Eric  had  tired  of  her,  was  on  with  another 
love  before  the  honeymoon  had  waned — she  needed  him 
now.  Yes,  he  would  go  at  once — to-morrow — by  fair  means 
or  foul,  Eric  must  be  made  to  quit  Paris ;  and  that  painted 
sorceress,  who  wrought  men's  ruin,  must  be  forced  to  give 
back  his  allegiance  to  his  wife.  He  should  not  neglect  her 
and  break  her  heart  with  impunity. 

That  night  Terry  Dennison  spent  tossing  feverishly  on  his 
bed,  listening  to  the  lashing  rain,  and  chilly,  whistling, 
February  wind.  Before  the  dark,  murky  day  had  fairly 
broken  he  was  at  the  London  bridge  station — at  nightfall  he 

was  in  Paris. 

*  *  *  #  #  # 

The  February  weather,  so  bleakly  raw  in  London,  is  bril 
liant  with  sunshine,  sparkling  with  crisp,  clear  frost  here  in 
Paris.  The  great  avenues  of  the  Bois  and  Champs  Elysees 
may  be  leafless,  but  the  hoar  frost  sparkles  in  the  early  sun 
shine  like  silver,  the  icicles  glitter  like  pendant  jewels,  and 
the  bright,  glad  life,  that  never  under  the  Parisian  sky  grows 
dull,  is  at  its  brightest. 

On  this  night  that  brings  Dennison  to  Paris,  gaslight  has 
taken  the  place  of  sunlight,  and  seems  to  his  eyes,  accus 
tomed  to  London  fog  and  dreariness,  no  whit  less  dazzling. 
The  bright  streets  are  thronged — the  huge  front  of  the  Hotel 
Du  Louvre  is  all  a  glitter  of  gaslights  as  his  fiacre  whirls  up, 
and  deposits  him  and  his  portmanteau  at  the  entrance. 

"  Can  he  have  a  room  ?  "  he  asks  the  gentlemanly  cleik. 


2go  HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN*. 

And  "  Mais  out  monsieur,"  is  the  answer  ;  "  there  is  one 
room  at  monsieur's  service,  but  it  is  au  cinquieme  numero 
quatre-vingts  douze" 

Monsieur  does  not  care  ;  he  prepares  to  mount,  turns 
back  and  asks : 

"  Lord  and  Lady  Dynely  are  here  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  monsieur.  Their  apartments  are  au  premier, 
lately  vacated  by  his  Serene  Highness  M.  le  Due ." 

Terry  ascends  to  his  cockloft,  with  a  gravely  meditative 
face.  Are  they  at  home  he  wonders  ?  is  she  ?  and  how 
will  Eric  receive  him  ?  If  what  Burrard  says  be  true,  it 
does  not  much  matter — his  and  Eric's  day  of  reckoning  will 
have  come. 

At  that  very  hour,  in  one  of  her  gorgeous  suite  of  rooms, 
Lady  Dynely  sits,  quite  alone.  Alone  !  ah,  poor  Crystal !  when 
is  she  not  alone  now  ?  She  sits,  or  rather  crouches,  on  the 
wide  velvet-cushioned  window  sill,  overlooking  the  brilliant, 
busy  quadrangle  below,  where  flowers  bloom  in  great  tubs, 
and  tall  palms  stand  dark  under  the  glass  roof,  heedless  of 
how  she  crushes  her  pretty  dinner  dress  of  blue  silk,  the  hue 
of  her  eyes.  The  soft  blonde  hair  falls  loose  and  half  curled 
over  her  shoulders.  What  does  it  matter  ?  Eric  is  not  here 
to  see — Eric  is  never  here  now  it  seems  to  her.  What  she 
wears,  how  she  looks,  have  ceased  to  interest  Eric.  He 
cares  for  her  no  more — after  the  deluge. 

Her  very  attitude  as  she  sits,  huddled  up  here,  is  full  of 
hopeless,  pathetic  pain.  The  street  lamps  flare  full  upon 
the  pretty,  youthful  face — youthful  still,  childish  no  longer. 
She  has  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and  its  fruit  has  been 
bitterer  than  death.  All  the  sweet,  childlike,  surprised  in 
nocence  of  the  soft  fair  face,  that  made  half  its  charm,  is 
gone — its  peach-like,  dimpled  outline  has  grown  sharp,  the 
pearly  fairness  has  turned  to  fixed  pallor — its  delicate  wild 
rose  bloom  has  entirely  faded — the  tender,  turquoise  eyes 
have  taken  a  look  of  patient  despair,  very  sad  to  see.  Not 
six  weeks  a  bride,  and  the  wife's  despair  shining  from  the 
sad,  sweet  eyes  already. 

Her  cheek  is  pressed  against  the  cool  glass  ;  her  hands — • 
from  one  of  which  her  wedding-ring  slips,  so  wasted  it  hag 


HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN.  28l 

grown — are  loosely  clasped  in  her  lap  ;  her  tired  eyes  watch 
listlessly  the  crowds  that  pass,  the  many  vehicles  that  flash 
up  to  the  great  doorway,  and  flash  away  again.  Her  mind 
is  as  listless  as  her  looks.  She  has  been  alone  for  two  hours 
— two  weeks  it  seems  to  her.  She  does  not  care  to  read,  she 
cannot  go  out,  she  cannot  call  in  her  maid  and  talk  to  her, 
and  there  is  no  one  else  she  knows.  For  Eric — well,  the 
largest  of  the  small  hours  will  bring  Eric  home — perhaps. 

Suddenly  she  starts.  From  a  nacre  that  has  just  drawn 
up  a  man  leaps  out.  The  lamp  light  falls  upon  him  for  a 
second,  and  Crystal's  heart  gives  a  leap.  Big,  broad-shoul 
dered,  ruddy,  bearded,  in  the  familiar  round  hat  and  suit  of 
tweed — how  much  it  looked  like  Terry.  Oh  !  to  see  Terry 
once  more — dear  old,  ever  kind  Terry !  oh,  to  see  any  of 
them  from  home — even  sharp  Elizabeth  Jane  or  snappish 
old  Belinda.  What  a  long,  long  time  it  seems  since  hei 
wedding  day  ! 

Her  wedding  day  !  It  is  only  six  weeks — six  little  weeks, 
and  how  happy  she  had  been  !  That  day,  with  all  its  de 
tails,  returns  to  her  with  a  pang  of  remembrance  that  pierces 
her  heart.  She  recalls  Terry's  parting  words  with  strange 
vividness  now — in  all  these  weeks  she  has  never  thought  of 
them  before. 

"  If  in  the  time  that  is  coming,  you  are  ever  in  trouble, 
if  you  ever  need  a  friend,  will  you  send  for  me  ?  All  our 
lives  we  have  been  as  brother  and  sister — by  the  memory  of 
the  past,  let  me  be  the  one  to  help  you  if  you  ever  stand  in 
need." 

She  had  laughed  in  her  happy  incredulity  then — ah, 
how  true  his  words  had  come.  But  she  could  never 
send  for  him,  or  for  any  one  on  earth  ;  her  trouble  was 
a  trouble  she  could  only  take  to  the  good  God.  He  alone 
could  befriend  her  here.  How  had  the  change  come  about  ? 
— was  she  to  blame  ?  She  could  not  tell.  Her  mind  went 
over,  in  a  dazed,  helpless  sort  of  way,  all  her  brief  married 
life,  and  the  fault  had  not  been  hers — that  she  knew. 
They  had  been  so  happy  in  Brittany,  so  intensely  happy 
— with  a  happiness  that,  as  a  quaint  English  writer  says, 
"  Spread  out  thin,  might  have  covered  comfortably  their 


282  HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN. 

whole  lives."  They  had  been  happy — intensely — for  one 
week;  happy  in  a  more  moderate  degree,  on  Eric's  part, 
the  second.  The  third  set  in  with  steady  drizzling  rain, 
and  wild  wintry  winds,  and  before  its  close  the  bridegroom 
was  yawning  in  the  face  of  the  bride.  He  was  as  fond  of 
Crystal  as  ever,  no  doubt,  but  four  days  of  incessant  rain  in 
a  dull  Breton  town  are  apt  to  be  trying  to  the  frivolous  mas 
culine  mind. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Chris,"  Eric  said,  with  a  prolonged  yawn, 
"  this  is  awfully  slow,  you  know.  I  can't  stand  much 
more  of  St.  Malo  and  this  infernal  weather — upon  my  word 
I  can't.  It's  a  beastly  dull  hole  at  any  time  ;  a  fortnight's 
as  long  as  any  rational  being  could  survive  it.  I  say,  let's 
go  to  Paris." 

If  Eric  had  said,  "  Let  us  go,  like  Hans  Pfaal,  up  to  the 
moon  in  a  balloon,  and  live  there,"  Crystal  would  have 
looked  up  in  her  lord's  handsome,  bored  face,  with  blue 
eyes  of  adoring  delight,  put  on  her  things,  and  gone.  Paris, 
or  St.  Malo,  or  the  moon,  were  all  alike  to  this  worshipping, 
little  three  weeks'  wife.  Next  day  they  came  to  Paris, 
and  Crystal's  troubles  began.  The  first  four  days  all  was 
well.  He  drove  with  her  in  the  Bois,  his  vanity  tickled 
by  the  profound  admiration  her  delicate  blonde  loveliness 
everywhere  excited.  He  took  her  to  the  Louvre,  to  the 
Tuileries,  to  a  ball  at  the  English  Embassy,  to  a  dinner  at 
the  Earl  of  Albemarle's. 

The  fourth  evening  was  windy  and  wet ;  she  had  a  slight 
headache,  and  could  not  go  out.  Eric  was  to  dine  at  the 
Jockey  Club,  of  which  he  was  a  member.  After  dinner, 
with  a  couple  of  friends,  he  went  to  the  Varieties  to  see 
Felicia  in  her  new  piece,  "  The  Golden  Witch."  He  went, 
and  Crystal's  doom  was  sealed. 

"It's  rather  odd,"  Eric  said,  as  he  and  his  friends  took 
their  places  in  the  stalls,  "  that  I've  never  seen  this  cele 
brated  Felicia.  She  had  finished  her  engagement  and  left 
London  before  I  came.  Is  she  really  the  great  irresistible 
she's  called?" 

"  Ah  !  wait  until  you  see,"  one  of  his  companions  an 
swered.  "  If  you  are  made  of  any  thing  like  the  inflamma- 


HOW  THE  NEW   YEAR  BEGAN.  283 

ble  materials  I  wot  of  of  old,  one  flash  from  hex  black  eyes 
will  finish  you." 

Eric  laughed. 

"  We  have  changed  all  that,  mon  ami.  I  have  outlived 
my  taste  for  black  beauties,  and  can  defy  all  the  sorceresses 
that  ever  bounded  before  the  footlights." 

There  was  a  glow  at  his  heart  as  he  said  it.  A  vision  rose 
up  before  him,  of  the  pure,  sweet  face,  crowned  with  its 
halo  of  pale  gold  hair,  that  he  had  left  at  home.  Ah  yes  ! 
these  dark  daughters  of  the  earth  had  had  their  day — he  was 
his  little  white  wife's  forever  now.  Then  the  curtain  rose, 
and  the  "  La  Sorciere  d'Or,"  in  a  triumphant  burst  of  music, 
bounded  before  them.  The  lights  flashed  up,  a  thunder  of 
welcome  shook  the  house,  their  favorite  was  smiling  and  kiss 
ing  hands  to  her  friends,  Eric  Dynely  looked  with  critical 
eyes.  Her  scant  drapery  was  as  if  woven  of  cloth  of  gold — 
she  seemed  robed  in  a  sunburst.  Her  magnificent  black 
hair  fell  in  a  rippling  shower  to  her  slim  waist,  clasped  back 
with  brilliants.  The  great,  dark  Southern  eyes  seemed  to 
outflash  the  diamonds.  Whatever  her  age,  under  the  gas 
lights  she  did  not  look  a  day  over  eighteen. 

"By  Jove!"  Eric  said,  his  breath  fairly  taken  away; 
"  she's  handsome,  Argyll !  " 

Argyll  smiled.  » 

"  Look  out  for  your  counter-charm,  old  fellow.  The 
fair  Felicia  slays,  and  spares  not.  She  is  handsome — yes 
as  a  tigress  or  panther  is  handsome — and  as  merciless." 

She  danced — it  was  the  very  poetry  of  grace  and  motion. 
She  sang — and  her  magnificent  contralto  filled  the  building. 
It  was  the  merest  trifle  of  a  play,  but  she  threw  herself  with 
wonderful  abandon  and  passion  into  her  part,  carrying  her 
audience  with  her.  At  the  close,  when  the  "  Golden 
Witch "  is  tried,  condemned,  and  found  guilty  of  witch 
craft,  when  she  is  sentenced  to  be  bound  to  the  stake, 
when  the  sacrificial  fire  is  kindled  about  her,  when, 
with  wild  agony  and  despair  in  the  beautiful,  ghastly  face, 
she  chants  her  own  weird  death  song,  a  silence  that  is  pain 
ful  and  oppressive  fills  the  house.  The  mimic  flames 
mount  high-  -the  death  song  dies  out  in  an  unearthly  wail  ol 


284  HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN. 

anguish  as  the  curtain  falls.  The  "  Golden  Witch  "  has  been 
burned  alivt. 

"  Best  thing  they  could  do  with  her,"  growls  Argyll ;  "  it's 
a  thousand  pities  they  don't  try  it  in  reality.  There  are  a 
good  many  belle  dames  sans  merci  in  this  one  city,  but  I'll  take 
my  oath  she's  the  wickedest  woman  in  Paris.  Wake  up, 
Dynely.  On  my  word,  the  fellow's  in  a  trance  I" 

The  theatre  shook  with  its  thunders  of  applause.  "  Fe 
licia  !  Felicia !  "  a  hundred  voices  called.  She  came,  glid 
ing  out  before  them,  smiling  and  bowing  once  more,  with  a 
serpentine  smoothness  of  motion,  a  supple  grace,  that  was 
very  pantheresque.  A  shower  of  bouquets  were  flung  upon 
the  stage — then  with  a  last  brilliant  smile  she  vanished,  and 
everybody  arose  to  go. 

"Will  you  come  behind  and  be  presented,  Dynely?"  his 
friend  said  ;  "you  rather  look  as  if  you'd  like  it.  I  have 
the  entree.  There's  to  be  a  supper,  and  Felicia's  little 
suppers  are  things  to  dream  of.  She  and  I  are  old  acquaint 
ances,"  he  laughs  as  he  lights  his  cigar  ;  "  any  friend  of  mine 
is  sure  of  a  welcome." 

To  turn  from  the  voice  of  the  tempter  was  an  act  of  self- 
sacrifice  Eric  had  never  striven  to  do  in  his  life.  He  did  not 
strive  now.  Certainly  he  would  go  and  be  presented  to  the 
adorable  Felicia.  • 

"  By  Jove !  Argyll,  old  fellow,  she  is  a  stunner  and  no 
mistake,"  he  said. 

So  they  went,  and  the  lovely  Felicia,  all  smiles  and  dark 
ling,  sparkling  glances,  proffers  her  hospitality  to  Mr.  Argyll's 
friend.  Eric  accepts.  For  one  instant  the  pale  slumbering 
face  of  his  wife  rises  before  him  reproachfully,  but  he  puts  the 
thought  impatiently  away.  She  is  asleep  long  ago — what 
odds  will  an  hour  or  two  make  to  her  to-morrow.  It  is,  as 
Argyll  says,  a  chef  d'ceuvre  of  a  supper — the  cuisine,  perfec 
tion — the  guests  the  wittiest,  cleverest  men,  the  most 
beautiful  and  successful  actresses  in  Paris.  And  in  a 
state  of  wild  intoxication,  that  comes  more  from  Felicia's 
smiles  and  looks  than  her  sparkling  wines,  Eric  reaches 
his  rooms  as  the  new  day  grows  gray  in  the  east.  Next 
morning — is  it  by  chance  ? — they  meet  in  the  Bois-—Lord 


HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN.  285 

Dynely  on  horseback,  Felicia  in  a  fairy  chariot,  drawn 
by  two  coal-black  Arabs,  handling  the  lines  like  "  Four-in- 
hand  Fossbrooke  "  himself.  The  brilliant  smiles  and  glan 
ces  are  showered  on  Lord  Dynely  once  more  in  dazzling 
profusion — he  becomes  her  attendant  cavalier,  and  they  take 
the  Bois  in  dashing  style,  the  observed  of  all  observers.  In 
a  delicious  bonnet — a  work  of  art  in  itself — behind  a  flimsy 
dotted  veil,  madame  still  looks  eighteen — no  more.  Her 
violet  velvets,  her  rich  sables,  set  off  her  dusk  beauty  well ; 
all  eyes  follow  her,  very  audible  French  exclamations  of  ad 
miration  reach  her  gratified  ears.  Hats  fly  off  at  her  ap 
proach — gentlemen  innumerable  salaam  before  her,  and  the 
graceful  head  bends  like  a  queen's  to  it  all.  Ladies  look  on 
the  other  side,  it  is  true — but  what  will  you  !  She  is  a  dan 
cer,  and  men  adore  her — two  unforgivable  sins  in  their  eyes  ; 
a  coquette  of  the  first  water — farther  than  that  slander  itself 
will  not  go.  The  sheep  dog — the  demure-faced  curate's 
widow — occupies  the  other  side,  as  they  fly  along,  down  the 
great  wooded  drive  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

And  little  Crystal's  doom  was  sealed  !  Neglect,  coldness, 
impatience — there  was  nothing  left  for  her  but  these.  Even 
ing  after  evening,  upon  one  pretext  or  another,  he  was 
absent  ;  evening  after  evening  she  sat  while  the  long,  drag 
ging,  miserable  hours  wore  by,  and  waited,  waited,  waited, 
for  one  who  did  not  come.  Many  madnesses  of  this  sort 
had  held  him  before,  but  none  so  utterly,  recklessly  mad  as 
this.  What  did  it  mean  ?  What  had  she  done  ?  She  could 
not  understand  the  change  in  him.  Was  Eric  growing  tired 
of  her  already  ?  The  childish  blue  eyes  would  lift  to  his  face 
in  bewildered,  pathetic  questioning,  the  childish  lips  would 
quiver.  He  could  not  meet  those  glances.  He  avoided  her 
more  and  more — her  meek,  uncomplaining  patience  was  the 
keenest  reproach  she  could  make.  Then  the  bewildered 
questioning  died  out  of  the  eyes,  and  a  dark  despair  took  its 
place.  Even  to  her,  secluded  as  a  nun,  vague  rumors  of  the 
truth  came.  Eric  had  tired  of  her — another  woman  ,hacl 
caught  his  eye  and  fancy.  All  was  over  for  her.  "Milor's" 
infatuation  for  the  actress  was  the  gossip  of  the  very  ser 
vants,  the  magnificent  presents  he  gave  her,  his  constant 


286  HOW   THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN. 

attendance  upon  her ;  and  in  some  way  it  all  floated  to 
Crystal's  ears.  Her  own  maid  looked  upon  her  with  pity 
ing  eyes — all  Paris  knew  that  she  was  a  bride  forsaken  be 
fore  the  honeymoon  had  waned.  She  uttered  no  word  of 
complaint — no  reproach,  only  the  color  died  out  of  her 
face,  the  light  from  her  eyes — to  her  it  was  death — her  life 
had  come  to  an  end — just  that. 

She  sits  alone  this  evening  as  usual — she  is  always  alone 
now.  She  accepts  no  invitations — she  receives  no  visitors. 
But  there  is  a  visitor  for  her  to-night,  however,  a  tall  gentle 
man,  at  whom  Marie,  the  maid,  casts  glances  of  admiration 
as  she  announces  him.  Crystal  rises,  bewildered,  from  the 
window — she  has  not  caught  the  name.  Under  the  light  of 
the  chandelier  her  visitor  stands,  and  a  great  cry  of  amaze 
and  delight  fills  the  room. 

"  Terry  ! "  she  cries  ;  "  oh,  Terry  !  " 

She  rushes  forward,  and  fairly  flings  her  arms  around  his 
neck.  She  is  so  utterly  lonely,  so  homesick  and  desolate, 
poor  child,  and  Terry  is  the  big  brother  who  has  always 
been  so  good  to  her — nothing  else. 

His  face  flushes  under  the  swift  caress.  Then  she  recol 
lects  herself,  and  lets  him  go,  and  puts  back  her  loose,  fall 
ing  hair  in  blushing  confusion. 

"  I it  was  so  sudden,  and  I — I  am  so  glad  to  see  a 

face  from  home.  Sit  down,  Terry.  When  did  you  come, 
and  how  are  they  all  ?  " 

Her  fingers  lace  and  unlace  nervously.  Her  lips 
tremble  like  the  lips  of  a  child  about  to  cry.  She  has 
grown  nervous  and  hysterical  of  late  from  being  so  much 
alone  with  her  misery,  and  the  sight  of  Terry  has  unnerved 
her. 

"  All  well,"  he  answers  cheerily  ;  "  at  least  I've  not  been 
down  at  the  Vicarage,  but  I  had  a  letter  from  Linda  a  week 
ago.  I  told  them  I  was  going  to  cross  over  and  look  you 
up,  and  they  sent  no  end  of  love  and  all  that." 

Then  there  is  a  pause — a  painful  one.  The  color 
has  faded  out  of  her  face,  and  it  looks  bluish  white  against 
the  crimson  velvet  back  of  her  chair.  Good  heavens  ! 
Terry  thinks,  with  a  thrill  of  pain  and  anger,  how  changed 


HOW  THE  NEW   YEAR  BEGAN.  287 

she  is,  how  thin,  how  worn,  how  pallid.    But  he  makes  no  men 
tion  of  her  looks,  he  only  asks  in  a  constrained  sort  of  voice  : 
"  Eric  is  well,  I  hope  ?  " 
"Oh,  yes,  thank  you  !" 

Her  voice  falters  as  she  repeats  the  old  formula.  Again 
there  is  silence.  Terry  is  not  a  good  one  for  making  conver 
sation,  and  silence  is  little  Crystal's  forte. 

"  Is  Eric  not  at  home  ? "  he  ventures  after  that  uneasy 
pause. 

"  No,"  she  answers,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  rings  she  is  un 
consciously  twisting  round  and  round ;  "  he  is  dining  out. 
It — it  is  a  bachelor  party.  He  could  not  take  me." 

"  And  what  business  has  he  at  bachelor  parties  now  1 " 
rises  to  Terry's  lips,  but  he  represses  it.  She  is  going  to  say 
something,  he  sees — the  sensitive  color  is  coming  and  going 
in  her  face — something  that  she  finds  hard  to  say.  It  comes 
out  at  last  hurriedly." 

"  Terry  !  I  wish  you  would  take  me  to  the  theatre  to 
night." 

"  Crystal  !  " 

"  To  the  Varietes.  I— I  want  to  go.  I  must  go  !  "  She 
lifts  her  eyes  to  his,  and  they  flash  for  a  moment.  "  I  have 
wanted  to  go  all  this  week.  Will  you  take  me  to-night  ?  " 

He  sets  his  lips.  She  has  heard  then.  He  asks  no 
questions — he  makes  no  reply. 

"  Don't  refuse  me,  Terry,"  she  pleads,  and  the  sweet  lips 
tremble.  "  You  never  did  refuse  me  anything — don't  be 
gin  now.  I  want  to  go — oh,  so  much  !  I  want  to  see — 
that  woman." 

The  wifely  hatred  and  jealousy  she  feels  for  "  that  woman  " 
are  in  the  bitterness  with  which  she  pronounces  the  two 
words.  It  is  hard  to  refuse  her — but  Terry  sits  silent  and 
troubled  still. 

"  I  would  do  anything  for  you,  Crystal,"  he  says  at 
length  ;  "but  this— is  this  best  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  go — I  will  go,"  she  says,  passionately,  turning 
away.  "  I  did  not  think  you  would  refuse,  Terry  Denni- 
son." 

"  I  have  not  refused,  Crystal,"  he  answers  gently.     "  Of 


288  HOW  THE  NEW    YEAR  BEGAN. 

course  I  will  take  you,  with  pleasure,  since  yoL  wish  "t, 
There  is  plenty  time,  too.  While  you  put  on  your  man  tie 
and  gloves,  I  will  go  and  secure  a  box — if  one  is  to  be  had." 

She  gives  him  a  grateful  glance. 

"  You  were  always  good  to  me,  Terry,"  she  repeats 
softly. 

He  sighs  to  himself  as  he  leaves  her.  So  changed !  so 
changed !  and  she  is  as  dear  to  him  as  ever.  The  hottest 
anger  he  has  ever  felt  against  any  living  man,  he  feels  to 
night  against  Lady  Dynely's  son. 

She  dresses  without  the  aid  of  her  maid — dresses  hurriedly, 
and  stands  all  ready  as  Dennison  reappears. 

"It  is  all  right,  Lady  Dynely,"  he  says  in  his  cheery 
voice  ;  "  by  great  good  luck  there  was  one  unoccupied  box, 
and  I  got  it.  Our  fiacre  is  at  the  door." 

She  slips  her  gloved  hand  within  his  arm  and  goes  down  ; 
she  is  trembling  with  nervous  excitement,  he  can  feel. 
She  has  never  seen  this  beautiful,  wicked  actress,  who  has 
charmed  her  darling  from  her — she  has  never  dared  speak  of 
her  to  Eric,  and  he  has  never  offered  to  take  her  anywhere. 
He  may  be  angry  when  he  hears  of  this — she  has  no  inten 
tion  of  concealing  it  from  him — but  she  must  see  her,  she 
must.  She  must  look  upon  the  face  fair  enough  to  take  the 
bridegroom  from  his  bride  before  the  honeymoon  is  at  an 
end. 

The  house  is  full  when  they  reach  it — a  glittering  horse 
shoe  of  faces,  and  toilettes,  and  gaslight,  and  perfume 
and  fluttering  fans.  She  sinks  into  her  seat  and  draws 
back  behind  the  curtain.  The  play  has  begun,  and  "  La 
Sorciere  d?Or"  in  her  dark,  insolent,  triumphant  beauty, 
and  dazzling  raiment,  is  on  the  stage,  electrifying  the 
audience  by  her  passionate  power. 

Crystal  looks  at  her  and  turns  sick,  sick  at  heart,  sick  with 
despair.  Yes,  she  is  beautiful — terribly,  brilliantly  beautiful 
— insolently,  demoniacally  beautiful,  it  seems  to  her.  Her 
voice  is  like  silver,  her  eyes  like  dusk  stars  ;  and  Eric  wor 
ships  beauty  in  all  things,  and  this  woman — this,  is  her  rival. 
She  turns  away  in  sick,  mute  despair  as  the  curtain  falls. 
What  power  has  she  to  hold  him  against  a  glittering  enchan- 


HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR  BEGAN.  289 

tress  like  this.  At  that  moment  a  party  of  gentlemen  enter 
the  box  opposite;  she  gives  a  quick  gasping  cry — one  of 
them  is  her  husband. 

He  has  been  dining  and  wining  evidently.  His  fair,  girl's 
complexion  is  flushed — his  blue  eyes  glitter  with  passionate 
excitement.  He  leans  back  and  sweeps  the  house  with  his 
glass — she  shrinks  tremblingly  farther  from  sight.  Terry,  too, 
draws  back — Terry,  whose  face  wears  a  look  Crystal  has 
never  seen  it  wear  before. 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  second  act.  Lord  Dynely's 
double-barrels  turn  from  the  people  to  the  players.  She  is 
on  the  stage  once  more — his  opera  glass  devours  her.  He 
lies  back  and  stares  immovably  all  through  the  act.  When  at 
its  close  loud  plaudits  ring  through  the  house,  his  primrose- 
kidded  hands  applaud  to  the  echo.  She  comes — floral  showers, 
as  usual,  rain  upon  her.  Crystal  does  not  look  at  her  now 
— her  fascinated  eyes  are  riveted  upon  her  husband.  She 
sees  him  lean  forward,  a  smile  on  his  handsome  face 
— sees  him  take  a  little  bouquet  of  fairy  roses  and  geranium 
leaves  from  his  button-hole  and  fling  it  to  the  actress.  Cry 
stal  gives  a  little  gasping  cry  of  sheer  physical  pain. 
She  formed  that  little  bouquet — she  pinned  it  into  his 
button-hole  as  she  kissed  him  good-by  four  hours  ago.  And 
now  the  actress  lifts  it — lifts  it  from  amid  hosts  of  others, 
presses  it  to  her  lips — flashes  one  lightning  glance  at  the  fair- 
haired  Englishman  in  the  box  above,  and  disappears. 

"You  stand  well  with  the  Felicia,  Dynely,"  one  of  the 
party,  a  compatriot  of  Eric's,  says,  with  a  loud  laugh.  "She 
selects  your  bouquet  from  all  that  pyramid.  Lucky  beggar  ! 
We  poor  devils  stand  no  chance  against  such  a  curled  dar 
ling  of  the  gods." 

The  third  act  finishes — the  golden  witch  dies  at  the  stake, 
singing  her  wondrous  funeral  song.  The  play  is  over. 

"  And  I'd  like  to  be  the  one  to  fire  the  fagots,  by  — ,"  Terry 
grinds  out  between  his  set  teeth.  Then  he  leans  over  and 
speaks  to  his  companion.  "Are  you  tired,  Crystal?  You 
pale,"  he  aays — so  gently  he  says  it. 

She  is  more  than  pale ;  her  very  lips  are  colorless ;  but 
13 


290  HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR   BEGAN. 

she  lifts  her  grateful,  hopeless  eyes,  and  repeats  the  old 
foolish  formula : 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you." 

"  The  '  Golden  Witch'  is  finished.  There  is  a  grand  new 
ballet — do  you  care  to  wait  to  see  it  ?"  he  asks  again. 

"  I  will  wait,  Terry,  if  you  please." 

She  does  not  care  for  the  ballet  ;  she  will  not  see  it  at  all, 
very  likely  ;  but  Eric  is  yonder — her  Eric — her  husband — • 
and  while  she  can  sit  and  watch  him,  this  place  is  better 
than  any  other  in  Paris. 

But  presently  Eric  gets  up,  leaves  his  box,  and  goes  away. 
There  is  rather  a  long  interval  before  the  ballet.  People 
chat,  flirt,  laugh,  discuss  the  play  and  Felicia,  and  presently 
there  is  a  stir,  and  a  bustle  and  a  sensation  amid  them  all. 

Every  glass  in  the  house  turns  to  one  box  as  the  cur 
tain  rises  and  the  new  ballet  begins.  Terry  and  Crystal 
look,  too. 

In  that  stage-box  the  star  of  the  night  sits.  Madame 
Felicia,  in  elegant  full  dress,  ablaze  with  diamonds,  lies  back 
in  her  chair,  wielding  a  fan  with  the  grace  of  a  Castilian 
donna,  and  listening,  with  a  smile  on  her  perfect  lips,  to  the 
whispered  words  of  the  man  who  bends  over  her.  He  stoops 
so  low  that  his  blonde  hair  mingles  with  her  jetty  tresses.  The 
little  knot  of  fairy  roses  nestle  in  these  ebon  locks  ;  and 
the  tall  cavalier  who  bends  so  closely,  so  devotedly,  is 
Eric,  Lord  Dynely 

Crystal  can  bear  no  more.  With  a  great  sob,  she  turns  to 
Dennison,  and  holds  out  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Terry,"  the  poor  child  says,  "take  me  home  ! " 

He  does  not  speak  a  word.  He  rises,  wraps  her  cloak 
around  her,  draws  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  leads  her 
out  of  the  theatre.  In  the  fiacre  she  falls  back  in  a  corner 
and  hides  her  face  from  the  pitiless  glare  of  the  streets.  No 
word  is  spoken  all  the  way — what  is  to  be  said  ?  Both  know 
the  worst. 

He  conducts  her  to  her  own  door,  still  dead  silent.  There 
he  pauses,  takes  both  her  hands  and  holds  them  in  his  strong, 
friendly  clasp,  while  he  looks  down  in  the  drooping,  heart 
broken  face. 


HOW  THE  NEW   YEAR  BEGAN.  2gi 

"Keep  up  heart,  little  Crystal,"  he  says;  "I'll fetch  Eric 
home  in  an  hour." 

She  lays  her  cold  cheek  down  for  a  second  on  the  warm, 
true  hands. 

"  Dear  old  Terry  ! "  she  says,  softly.  Then  he  lets  her  go, 
and  the  velvet-hung  door  closes  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI." 

[ND  this  is  how  it  has  ended.  Only  five  weeks  mar 
ried — and  he  has  wearied  of  her  already — a 
newer,  more  brilliant  beauty  has  won  him  from 
her.  Terry  has  known  it  would  come — • 
known  it  from  the  first,  but  not  so  soon — good  Hea 
ven  !  not  so  soon.  He  takes  his  way  into  the  street,  the 
hottest,  fiercest  wrath  he  has  ever  felt  against  any  human 
being,  burning  in  his  heart  against  Eric  Dynely.  How  she 
has  changed — what  a  pale  shadow  of  the  lovely,  happy  face 
she  took  to  the  altar  last  New  Year's  day.  What  a  pitiful, 
crushed,  heart-broken  look  the  sweet,  childish  eyes  wear. 
If  she  could  have  loved  him — if  he  could  have  won  her — if 
Eric  had  never  come  between  them,  how  happy  he  could 
have  made  her  !  He  would  have  made  her  life  so  blessed, 
she  would  have  been  all  his  own  in  time,  beyond  the  power 
of  any  man  to  come  between  them.  With  a  sort  of  groan 
he  breaks  off.  His  she  is  not,  his  she  can  never  be.  Eric 
must  return  to  her  or  she  will  die — the  whole  story  is  told  in 
that. 

"He  shall  return  to  her,"  Terry  says  inwardly,  setting  his 
teeth,  "  or  I  will  know  the  reason  why." 

He  does  not  pause  a  moment — he  hurries  at  once  to  the 
theatre.  The  ballet  is  but  just  ended — the  people  are  pour 
ing  forth,  but  nowhere  among  them  does  he  see  Eric.  At 
length  in  the  crowd  he  espies  a  man  he  knows,  one  of  the  four 
who  first  entered  with  him  he  is  seeking,  and  he  makes  his 
way  to  him  and  taps  him  familiarly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Boville,  old  boy,"  he  says  with  the  Briton's  customary 
curt  greeting,  "how  are  you  ?" 


"LA   BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI."  293 

Mr.  Boville  looks  over  his  shoulder  and  opens  two  small, 
sleepy-looking  eyes. 

"  What,  Dennison  !  what,  Terry !  you  here  !  thought  you 
were  at  Aldershot.  Awfully  glad  to  see  you  all  the  same." 

"I'm  looking  for  Eric,"  Terry  responds,  plunging  at  once 
into  his  subject.  "  He  came  in  with  you.  Where  is  he 
now?" 

"Yes,  he  came  in  with  me,"  Boville  says,  with  a  faint, 
weary  little  laugh.  "  Where  is  he  now  ?  In  much  pleasanter 
company,  dear  boy — driving  home  with  Madame  Felicia. 
Intoxicating  creature  that — eh,  Terry?  And  weally,  on  my 
word,  you  know,"  lisps  Mr.  Boville,  raising  his  white  eye 
brows,  "  Dynely  is  altogether  the  spooniest  fellow  ! " 

"Where  does  Madame  Felicia  live?"  Terry  growls,  with 
a  flash  of  his  eye,  cutting  Mr.  Boville's  drawl  suddenly  short. 

The  slow,  sleepy  eyes  open  again.  Mr.  Boville  looks  at 
Mr.  Dennison  with  a  curious  little  half  smile.  But  he  gives 
Madame  Felicia's  address  readily  enough,  and  watches  the 
hig  dragoon  out  of  sight  with  a  shrug. 

"  Is  Eric  to  be  brought  to  his  senses,  and  is  Terry  deputed 
to  do  it,  I  wonder?"  he  thinks.  "If  so,  then  Terry  has 
quite  the  most  difficult  task  before  him  that  heavy  dragoon 
was  ever  called  upon  to  do." 

Yes,  Terry  was  going  to  bring  him  to  his  senses — going  to 
bring  him  to  his  wife  ;  and  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  he 
hails  a  fiacre,  gives  the  address,  and  is  whirled  away  through 
the  noonday  gaslit  brilliance  of  the  boulevards. 

"There's  to  be  a  supper,  no  doubt,"  he  thinks.  "  Is  not 
Felicia  famous  wherever  she  goes  for  her  after-theatre  sup 
pers?  Well,  fortune  stands  my  friend  this  time — I  hold  the 
open  sesame  to  her  doors,  and  though  I  have  never  availed 
myself  of  it  before,  by  Jove!  I  will  to-night." 

His  mind  goes  back  to  a  certain  day  two  years  before, 
when  he  had  in  all  probability  saved  Madame  Felicia's  life, 
or  at  least  what  was  of  equal  account  to  her,  her  beauty.  It 
was  the  old  story  of  runaway  horses — the  lady  rescued  in 
the  nick  of  time.  Madame's  passion  for  spirited  ponies  had, 
on  more  occasions  than  one.  placed  her  pretty  neck  and 
graceful  limbs  in  jeopardy — on  this  occasion  the  runaways 


294  "LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI" 

had  become  altogether  unmanageable,  the  reins  had  been 
jerked  from  her  hands,  and  with  heads  up  and  eyes  flashing, 
they  had  rushed  madly  along.  The  gates  of  a  great  park 
ended  the  road — if  those  gates  were  open  madame  still  stood 
one  chance,  if  they  were  closed — she  shuddered,  intrepid 
little  Amazon  as  she  was,  and  sat  still  as  death,  and  white  as 
marble,  straining  her  eyes  through  the  whirlwind  of  dust  as 
they  flew  along.  The  park  came  in  sight — the  gates  were 
closed /  It  was  just  at  that  moment  Terry  Dennison,  on 
horseback,  came  in  view.  He  took  in  the  situation  in  an 
instant.  To  a  tempt  to  check  the  horses  in  their  mad  career 
would  have  been  useless  now ;  they  would  wrench  his  arms 
from  the  sockets  before  they  could  be  stopped.  He  gal 
loped  up,  hurled  himself  off  his  horse,  and  with  the  agility 
of  a  circus  rider  and  the  strength  of  a  latter-day  Samson, 
lifted  the  lady  sheer  out  of  the  carriage.  The  horses  went 
headlong  at  the  closed  gates,  shivering  the  frail  phaeton  to 
atoms,  and  Madame  Felicia  fainted  quietly  away  in  Lieu 
tenant  Denni son's  arms. 

That  was  the  story.  Terry  never  made  capital  of  it,  but 
the  actress  did.  She  was  profoundly  and  greatly  grateful, 
and  to  show  that  gratitude,  made  every  possible  effort  to  cap 
tivate  her  preserver  and  break  his  heart.  For  once  she  failed. 
Mr.  Dennison  was  invulnerable.  All  her  cajoleries,  all  her 
fascinations,  all  her  beauty  and  chic,  fell  powerless  on  this 
big  dragoon's  dull  sensibilities.  He  saw  through  her  and 
laughed  at  her  quietly  in  his  sleeve.  What  the  deuce  did  the 
little,  gushing  dancer  mean  making  eyes  at  him?  Terry  won 
dered.  He  wasn't  an  elder  son;  he  didn't  keep  an  open 
account  at  Hunt  &  RoskelPs  ;  he  had  never  given  any  one  a 
diamond  bracelet  in  his  life.  She  knew  it  too — then  what  did 
she  mean  ?  It  was  madame' s  way  of  showing  her  deep  grati 
tude  to  the  preserver  of  her  life — simply  that.  But  for  Terry 
she  would  have  been  smashed  to  atoms  with  the  phaeton, 
her  beauty  ruined,  her  symmetrical  limbs  broken,  her  occupa 
tion  gone.  She  shuddered  when  she  thought  of  it ;  death 
would  have  been  preferable  to  that.  She  was  grateful,  deeply 
and  truly  grateful,  and  gave  Mr.  Dennison  carte  blanche  to 
come  and  go  as  he  pleased  from  henceforth  forever.  It  was 


"LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS  MERCI? 


295 


a  privilege  for  which  royalty  itself  was  sighing  just  then,  but 
with  the  dull  insensibility  that  had  always  characterized  him 
in  these  things,  Dennison  treated  it  and  her  with  the  calmest, 
utterest  indifference.  He  liked  her  as  a  dancer,  but  as  a 
woman,  and  in  private  life,  not  any,  thanks.  Terry  did  not 
go  in  for  dancers.  In  short  Mr.  Dennison  would  not  be 
numbered  among  her  victims,  would  not  lose  his  head  for 
her ;  and  madame  saw  and  laughed  good-naturedly,  and 
gave  it  up  and  respected  him  accordingly.  It  would  be  a 
refreshing  novelty  to  have  a  masculine  friend,  a  friend  pure 
and  simple,  who  would  never  be  a  lover,  and  so  she  liked 
Dennison  as  honestly,  as  a  more  honest  woman  might,  and 
still  kept  her  doors  open  to  him.  He  came  at  times  to 
those  pleasant,  post-opera  suppers,  where  the  cleverest 
painters,  the  most  distinguished  novelists,  the  handsomest 
actresses  in  London  were  to  be  met,  and  was  ever  warmly 
welcomed. 

He  had  known  she  was  in  Paris — he  had  not  met  her  for 
seven  months,  but  he  had  not  had  the  faintest  intention  of  call 
ing  upon  her  here.  And  now  he  was  whirling  along  rapidly 
to  her  rooms.  Of  his  welcome  from  her,  at  all  times  and  in 
all  places,  he  was  sure  ;  his  welcome  from  Eric  was  much 
more  to  the  point  just  at  present;  and  of  that  he  was  not 
at  all  sure. 

"  Hang  her  !  "  Terry  thought,  with  an  inward  growl  ; 
"  hang  all  such  confounded  little  pirates,  cruising  in  honest 
waters,  and  raising  the  devil  wherever  they  go.  Still  if  one 
goes  there  at  all,  one  must  be  civil,  I  suppose. 

Civil  accordingly,  Mr.  Dennison  was  when  ushered  into 
the  gem -like  drawing-room  of  Madame  Felicia. 

A  chandelier,  blazing  like  a  mimic  sun  in  the  frescoed 
ceiling,  made  the  room  one  sheet  of  golden  light.  The  walls 
were  lined  with  mirrors,  the  windows  hung  with  satin  and 
lace,  the  air  heavy  with  pastilles.  Half-a-dozen  elegantly 
dressed  and  exceptionally  handsome  women  reclined 
in  every  species  of  easy-chair,  with  attendant  cavaliers. 
On  a  low  fauteuil  reclined  the  great  Felicia  herself,  robed 
?n  a  billowy  cloud  of  translucent  white.  As  a  rule  she 
affected  costly  moires,  stiff  brocades,  heavy  velvets  ;  to-night, 


296  "LA   BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I." 

crisp,  white  gossamer  floated  about  the  perfect  form,  rich 
est  lace  draped  the  arms  and  shoulders,  diamonds  and 
opals  glittered  about  her,  and  pale,  perfumy,  yellow 
roses  nestled  in  the  dead-blue  blackness  of  her  hair.  By 
her  side,  Lord  Dynely  sat,  gazing  at  the  dusky,  languid, 
slightly-bored,  warmly-lovely  face,  as  if  he  could  never  gaze 
enough.  All  started  and  stared  as  the  new-comer  was  an 
nounced.  Unknown  to  all  but  two — most  unlocked  for  by 
them — Terry  yet  advanced  with  that  ease  that  the  utter  ab 
sence  of  all  vanity,  of  all  self-consciousness,  gives. 

"  I  only  reached  Paris  to-night,"  he  said,  "  and  unortho 
dox  as  is  the  hour,  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  call. 
It  is  seven  months  since  we  met,  madame,  and  you  will  re 
collect  that  in  your  goodness  I  hold  permission  to  visit  you 
in  season  and  out  of  season." 

Quite  a  lengthy  and  diplomatic  speech  for  the  speaker, 
but  he  had  prepared  it  in  the  fiacre.  When  one  deals  with 
serpents  one  must  be  subtle.  The  yellow-black  eyes  turned 
upon  him,  a  light  of  real  pleasure  in  them  ;  she  half  arose 
and  held  out  her  hand.  She  was  cordially  pleased  to  see 
Terry. 

"  Mr.  Dennison  knows  he  is  always  more  than  welcome 
— one  does  not  easily  forget  such  service  as  he  rendered. 
How  very  nice  of  you  to  call.  Let  me  introduce  you  to 
Lord  Dynely  ;  but  you  know  him,  perhaps  ?  " 

She  looked  doubtfully  at  his  lordship.  Know  him  ? 
Surely!  for  on  Lord  Dynely' s  face  an  unmistakable  scowl 
has  arisen. 

"  What  the  devil  brings  you  to  Paris,  Dennison  ? "  he 
bluntly  demands  ;  "  when  did  you  come  ? 

"  To-night,  mon  cher — have  you  not  heard  me  say  so  ? 
Delighted  to  see  me  does  he  not  look  ?  "  Terry  says  gayly, 
turning  to  madame. 

"Where  are  you  stopping?"  Eric  asks,  still  with  a 
scowl. 

"  I  honor  the  Louvre  with  my  patronage  on  this  occasion, 
my  lord." 

Then  there  is  a  pause.  The  two  men  look  at  each  other 
- — one  straight,  level,  searching  glance — angry  and  sus 


"LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI."  297 

picious  on  Eric's  part — stern  and  resolved  on  Terry's.  Eric 
is  the  first  to  turn  away,  with  a  shrug,  and  a  slight  contemp 
tuous  laugh. 

4i  John  Bull  is  ubiquitous  !  Go  where  you  will  he  crops 
up  when  you  least  expect  him.  It  is  one  of  the  great  draw 
backs  of  our  civilization." 

"  Was  monsieur  at  the  Varietes  to-night?  "  madame  asks, 
coquettishly.  She  is  not  French,  but  she  affects  the  French 
l.mguage  as  she  affects  French  cookery,  French  toilettes, 
and  French  morals. 

"  I  have  had  that  pleasure,"  Terry  responds.  te  Madame 
is  irresistible  in  all  things,  but  she  out-does  herself  in  '  La 
Sorciere  d1  Or.'  Shall  we  see  you  in  it  at  the  Bijou  next 
London  season  ?  " 

Felicia  laughs  softly,  and  glances  up  from  under  her  black 
lashes  at  Lord  Dynely's  gloomy  face. 

"  Ah — who  knows  ?  Next  London  season — it  begins  in  a 
month  or  two,  does  it  not  ?  but  who  knows  what  may  hap 
pen  in  a  month  or  two?  One  maybe  a  thousand  mile-? 
away  from  your  bleak  fogs,  and  easterly  winds,  and  dull 
phlegmatic  stalls  by  that  time.  Mon  ami,  how  sulky  you 
look,"  striking  Dynely  a  blow  with  her  perfumed  fan.  "  As 
you  say  in  your  country — a  penny  for  your  thoughts." 

"They  are  worth  much  more— I  was  thinking  of  you"  he 
answers  rather  bitterly. 

"  Lord  Dynely  does  me  too  much  honor.  Judging  by  his 
tone  they  must  be  pleasant.  May  I  ask  what?  " 

"  I  was  wondering  if  there  will  be  any  Madame  Felicia  to 
enchant  the  sleepy  British  stalls  of  the  Bijou  next  season.  I 
was  wondering  if  by  that  time  it  will  not  be  Her  Excellency, 
Madame  La  Princesse  Di  Venturini." 

She  laughs  a  second  time.  His  angry,  jealous  tone,  which 
he  cannot  conceal  if  he  would,  amuses  her  vastly. 

"Who  knows?"  is  her  airy  answer;  "such  droll  things 
happen  !  I  am  not  sure,  though,  that  it  would  be  half  so 
pleasant.  They  are  announcing  supper.  Mr.  Dennison, 
will  you  give  me  your  arm  ?  Lord  Dynely,  the  most  de 
lightful  of  men,  the  most  gallant  of  gentlemen  on  ordinary 
occasions,  yet  falls  a  prey  at  times  to  what  I  once  heard  a 
13* 


298  "LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I" 

countryman  of  his  call  the  doldrums.     And  I  cannot  endure 
people  who  have  the  doldrums  !  " 

She  laughs  once  more,  softly  and  musically,  and  shows 
dazzlingly  white  teeth.  She  is  a  trifle  vulgar,  this  peerless 
Felicia — her  most  ardent  admirers  admit  that.  She  smokes, 
she  drinks  a  great  deal  of  her  own  champagne — she  has  even 
been  known  to  swear  at  times.  But  she  laughs  well — it  is 
one  of  her  most  telling  points — languidly,  sweetly  and  very 
often.  What  her  nationality  is  no  one  seems  exactly  to 
know.  English  she  is  not — French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Ger 
man,  she  is  not.  There  are  people  who  hint  at  Yankee  ex 
traction  ;  but  this  madame  herself  denies,  furiously  and  an 
grily  denies.  She  has  never  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  her  life, 
and  never,  never  will.  She  hates  America.  The  lazy,  topaz 
eyes  flash  as  she  says  it.  She  will  never  play  in  America  in 
her  life. 

The  ruby  velvet  portieres  were  drawn  aside,  and  they  filed 
in  by  twos  into  the  adjoining  dining-room.  Here  too  the 
light  was  vivid  as  noonday,  and  beneath  the  mimic  sun  of 
gas  a  table  glittered  that  was  a  vision.  Tall  epergnes  of 
frosted  silver,  filled  with  rarest  hot-house  flowers,  slender 
glasses  of  waxy  camellias  from  the  greenery  of  a  duke,  rarest, 
costliest  grapes,  peaches  and  pears. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  in  the  gay  hum  of  conversation 
as  they  sat  down.  Felicia's  cook  was  a  chef  of  the  first 
water — his  works  of  art  were  best  appreciated  by  silence. 
For  her  wines — was  not  every  famous  cellar  in  Paris  laid 
under  contribution  ?  — nothing  finer  were  to  be  met  at  the 
table  of  imperial  royalty  itself.  Presently,  however,  the  first 
lull  passed,  gay  conversation,  subdued  laughter,  witty  sallies, 
brilliant  repartees  flashed  to  and  fro.  Perhaps  of  all  the 
clever  company  assembled,  the  hostess  herself  was  least 
clever.  As  a  dancer  she  was  not  to  be  surpassed — as  a 
beauty  she  was  without  peer — as  a  brilliant,  a  witty  conversa 
tionalist,  she  was  nowhere.  She  ate  her  delicate  salmis, 
drank  her  famous  clarets  and  sparkling  Sillery,  laughed  softly 
at  the  gay  sallies  going  on  around  her,  and  watched  Lord 
Dynely,  her  vis-a-vis,  with  a  mocking  smile  in  the  languid 
depths  of  her  topaz  eyes.  He  sat,  like  herself,  almost  en- 


"LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS  MERCI"  299 

rirely  silent  through  all  the  bright  badinage  going  on  around 
him,  his  brows  bent  moodily,  drinking  much  more  than  he 
ate — a  sort  of"  marble  guest''  amid  the  lights,  the  laughter, 
the  feasting  and  the  flowers. 

Terry's  sudden  coming  had  completely  upset  him.  Some 
thing  in  Terry's  eyes  roused  him  angrily  and  aggressively. 
What  business  had  the  fellow  here  ?  What  business  in  Paris 
at  all?  Through  the  unholy  glitter,  his  wife's  face  rose  be 
fore  him  as  he  had  left  her  hours  ago,  pale,  patient,  pathetic. 
The  tiny  knot  of  roses  she  had  given  him  gleamed  still  amid 
the  blackness  of  Felicia's  hair — Felicia,  who,  lying  back,  eat 
ing  an  apricot,  seemed  wholly  engrossed  by  her  conver 
sation  with  Dennison.  The  broad  band  of  gold  and  dia 
monds  on  her  perfect  arm  blazed  in  the  light.  Only  yester 
day  he  had  given  it  to  her,  and  now  she  had  neither  eyes 
nor  ears  for  any  one  but  this  overgrown,  malapropos  dra 
goon. 

" Mon ami"  Felicia  said  to  him,  with  a  malicious  laugh, 
as  they  arose  to  return  to  the  drawing-room,  "  you  remind 
one  of  the  t&e  de  mort  of  the  Egyptians — wasn't  it  the 
Egyptians  who  always  had  a  death's  head  at  their  feasts  as 
a  sort  of  memento  moril — -and  the  role  of  death's-head  does 
not  become  blonde  men.  For  a  gentleman  whose  honey 
moon  has  not  well  ended,  that  face  speaks  but  illy  of  post 
nuptial  joys." 

"  Ah,  let  him  alone,  madame ! "  cried  Cecil  Rossart,  a 
tall,  pretty,  English  singer,  with  a  rippling  laugh.  "You 
know  what  the  poet  says — what  Byron  says  : 

*'  '  For  thinking  of  an  absent  wife 
Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek.' " 

His  lordship  is  thinking  of  the  lecture  her  ladyship  will 
read  him  when  he  returns  home." 

"  If  late  hours  involve  curtain  lectures,"  cried  Adele  Des- 
barats,  shrilly,  "  then,  mdfoi !  milor  should  be  well  used  to 
them  by  this.  To  my  certain  knowledge,  he  has  not  been 
home  before  three  in  the  morning  for  the  last  two  weeks." 

"  Let  us  hope  my  lady  amuses   herself  well  in  his  ab- 


300  "LA   BELLE  DAME  SANS  MEKCI." 

sence  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Rossart,  flinging  herself  into  a 
Louis  Quatorze  fauteuil,  and  rolling  up  a  cigarette  with  white, 
slim  fingers — "  no  difficult  thing  in  our  beloved  Paris." 

Eric  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  at  each  ill-timed  jest, 
his  blue  eyes  literally  lurid  with  rage.  Dennison's  face 
darkened,  too,  so  suddenly  and  ominously,  that  Felicia,  not 
without  tact,  saw  it,  and  changed  the  subject  at  once. 

"Sing  for  us,  Adele,"  she  cried  imperiously,  lying  luxu 
riously  back  in  her  favorite  dormeuse.  "  Mr.  Dennison  has 
not  heard  you  yet.  Have  you  heard  Mademoiselle  Des- 
barats,  mon  ami  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  had  that  pleasure,  madame." 

The  vivacious  little  brunette  went  over  at  once  to  the 
open  piano,  and  began  to  sing.  The  others  dispersed  them 
selves  to  smoke  and  play  bezique.  Madame's  rooms  were 
Liberty  Hall  itself.  Lord  Dynely  leaned  moodily  across 
the  piano,  a  deep,  angry  flush,  partly  of  wine,  partly  of  jeal 
ousy,  partly  of  rage  at  Dennison,  partly  of  a  vague,  remorse 
ful  anger  at  himself,  filled  him.  For  Terry,  madame  cleared 
away  her  billowy  tulle  and  laces,  and  made  room  for  him  be 
side  her,  with  her  own  enchanting  smile. 

Immediately  above  the  piano  —  immediately  opposite 
where  they  sat,  a  picture  hung,  the  broad  yellow  glare  of 
light  falling  full  upon  it.  It  was  the  picture  that  had  creat 
ed  the  furore  last  May  in  the  Academy.  "  How  the  Night 
Fell." 

*'  I  have  always  had  a  fancy,  madame,"  Terry  said,  doub 
ling  his  hand  and  looking  through  it  at  the  painting,  "  that 
the  woman  in  that  picture  is  excessively  like  you.  I  never 
saw  you  with  such  an  expression  as  that — I  trust  I  never 
may ;  still  the  likeness  is  there — and  a  very  strong  one  too. 
Do  you  not  see  it  yourself?  " 

"  Yes.  I  see  it,"  madame  answered,  with  a  slow,  sleepy 
smile. 

"It's  odd  too,  for  Locksley — Caryll  I  mean — never  saw 
you.  I  asked  him  myself.  He  Had  a  dislike  to  theatre- 
going  it  seemed,  and  never  went  near  the  Bijou." 

The  slow,  sleepy  smile  deepened  in  madame' s  black 
eyes,  as  they  fixed  themselves  dreamily  on  the  picture. 


"LA   BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI."  301 

"He  never  went  to  the  Bijou — never  saw  me  there? 
You  are  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.     Told  me  so  himself." 

"  Ah  !  well,  his  dislike  for  theatres  and  actresses  is  natu 
ral  enough,  I  suppose,  considering  his  past  unlucky  experi 
ence.  Quite  a  romance  that  story  of  his  ;  is  it  not  ?  Is 
she  alive  still?" 

**  No,"  Terry  answered  gravely,  "  dead  for  many  years. 
Killed  in  a  railway  accident  in  Canada,  ages  ago." 

The  sleepy  smile  has  spread  to  madame's  lips.  She  flut 
ters  her  fan  of  pearl  and  marabout  with  slim  jewelled  fin 
gers. 

"  Mr.  Locksley — I  mean  Caryll — promised  me  a  compan 
ion  picture  to  this.  I  suppose  I  may  give  up  all  hope  of 
that  now.  I  really  should  like  to  make  his  acquaintance ; 
I  have  a  weakness  for  clever  people — painters,  poets,  au 
thors — not  being  in  the  least  clever  myself,  you  understand. 
No,  I  don't  want  a  compliment — there  is  no  particular  ge 
nius  in  being  a  good  dancer.  For  the  rest,"  with  a  faint 
laugh,  "my  face  is  my  fortune.  Where  is  Gordon  Caryll 
now  ?  " 

She  speaks  the  name  as  though  it  were  very  familiar  to  her 
— with  an  undertone — Terry  hears  but  does  not  comprehend. 

"In  Rome,  with  his  mother." 

"  Does  he  ever  come  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  He  is  expected  here  almost  immediately,  I  believe." 

"  Ah  ! "  she  laughs.  "  Well,  when  he  comes,  Monsieur 
Dennison,  fetch  him  some  night  to  see  me.  Will  you?  " 

"If  he  will  come.  And  when  he  hears  you  have  wished 
it,  I  am  quite  sure  he  will,"  says  Terry. 

There  is  a  pause.  Madame's  eyes  are  fixed,  as  if  fasci 
nated,  on  the  picture  beyond. 

"I  presume,  after  Mr.  Caryll's  first  unlucky  matrimonial 
venture,  he  will  hardly  thrust  his  head  into  the  lion's  jaw 
again.  I  have  heard  a  rumor — but  I  can  hardly  credit  it— 
that  he  is  to  be  married  again  next  May." 

"  It  is  quite  true." 

"  To  a  great  heiress — to  that  extremely  handsome  Miss 
Forrester  I  saw  so  often  with  you  last  season  in  the  park  ?  " 


"LA   SELLS  DAME   SANS  MERC I » 

Terry  bows.  He  does  not  relish  France's  name  on  Ma. 
dame  Felicia's  lips. 

"  It  is  a  love-match,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  A  love-rnatch,  madame." 

She  tears  to  pieces  a  rose  she  holds,  watching  the  scented 
leaves  as  they  flutter  and  fall. 

"  But  there  is  a  great  disparity  of  years.  She  nineteen, 
he  almost  forty.  I  wonder  " — she  says  this  suddenly,  flashing 
the  light  of  the  yellow-black  eyes  electrically  upon  him — 
"if  the  first  unlucky  Mrs.  Caryll  were  not  dead,  only  di 
vorced — if  Miss  Forrester  would  still  marry  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  sure  she  would  not,"  Dennison  responds  ; 
"  but  there  is  no  use  speaking  of  that.  The  woman  is  dead 
• — dead  as  Queen  Anne — was  killed  in  a  railway  accident, 
as  I  say,  and  a  very  lucky  thing  too  for  all  concerned." 

There  is  a  flash,  swift  and  furious,  from  the  black  eyes,  but 
Terry  does  not  see  it.  The  ringed  hands  close  over  the 
pretty  fan  she  holds  with  so  savage  a  clasp  that  the  delicate 
sticks  snap. 

"  See  what  I  have  done  ! "  she  laughs,  holding  it  up  ; 
"  and  Lord  Dynely  was  good  enough  to  give  it  to  me  only 
yesterday.  Well — it  has  had  its  day — he  must  be  content." 
She  flings  the  broken  toy  ruthlessly  away,  and  looks  up  at 
her  companion  once  more.  "  Does  Miss  Forrester  accom 
pany  Mr.  Caryll  to  Paris  in  this  expected  visit  ?  " 

"  They  all  come  together — his  mother,  Lady  Dynely  (the 
dowager  Lady  Dynely  I  mean),  Miss  Forrester  and  Mr. 
Caryll,"  Terry  answers,  uneasily,  longing  to  change  the  sub 
ject  but  hardly  knowing  how. 

She  smiles  a  satisfied  kind  of  smile  and  is  silent.  Her 
eyes  rest  on  Lord  Dynely' s  moody,  sullen  face,  as  he  stands 
by  the  piano,  heedless  of  the  song  and  the  singer,  and  she 
laughs. 

"  Your  coming  seems  to  have  had  a  depressing  effect  up 
on  your  kinsman.  By  the  bye,  he  is  your  kinsman,  is  he 
not  ?  He  was  in  the  wildest  of  wild  high  spirits  before  you 
entered.  Is  this  romantic  Mr.  Caryll  not  a  relative  also  ?  " 

"  A  second  cousin.  You  do  Gordon  Caryll  the  honor  of 
being  interested  in  him,  madame,"  Terry  says  brusquely. 


"LA  BELLE  DA  HIE  SANS  MERC  I."  303 

Madame  laughs  again  and  shrugs  her  smooth  shoulders. 

"And  you  are  sick  of  the  subject !  Yes,  he  interests  me 
— one  so  seldom  meets  a  man  with  a  story  nowadays — men 
who  have  ever,  at  any  period  of  their  existence,  done  the 
'all  for  love,  and  the  \vorld-\vell-lost '  business.  Shall  we 
not  call  over  poor  Lord  Dynely  and  comfort  him  a  little  ? 
He  looks  as  though  he  needed  it.  Tres  cher"  she  looks  to 
wards  him  and  raises  her  voice,  "  we  will  make  room  for  you 
here  if  you  like  to  come." 

"  I  shall  make  my  adieux,"  Lord  Dynely  answers  shortly. 
"You  are  being  so  well  entertained,  that  it  would  be  a 
thousand  pities  to  interrupt.  It  is  one  o'clock,  and  quite 
time  to  be  going.  Good-night." 

He  turns  abruptly  away  and  leaves  them.  Again  madame 
laughs,  and  shrugs  her  graceful  shoulders  at  this  evidence 
of  her  power. 

"  What  bears  you  Britons  can  be  !  "  she  says  ;  "  how  sulkily 
jealous,  and  how  little  pains  you  take  to  hide  it.  Why  did 
not  your  Shakespeare  make  Othello  an  Englishman  ?  What, 
man  ami ! — you  going  too  ?  " 

"For  an  uninvited  guest  have  I  not  lingered  sufficiently 
long?"  Terry  answers  carelessly,  and  then  he  hurriedly 
makes  his  farewells,  and  follows  Eric  out. 

He  finds  him  still  standing  in  the  vestibule,  and  lighting  a 
cigar.  The  night  has  clouded  over,  a  fine  drizzling  rain  is 
beginning  to  fall,  but  Eric  evidently  means  to  walk.  The 
distance  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre  is  not  great. 

"  Our  way  lies  together,  old  boy,"  Terry  says,  linking  his 
arm  familiarly  through  Eric's,  "so  I  cut  it  short  and  came 
away." 

"What  an  awful  cut,  for  Felicia,"  Eric  retorts,  with  an 
angry  sneer.  "  Let  me  congratulate  you,  Terry,  on  your 
evident  success  ;  I  never  knew  before  that  you  went  in  for 
that  sort  of  thing." 

'.'  If  by  going  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  you  mean  flirtation 
with  danseuses,  I  don't  go  in  for  it,"  is  Terry's  reply.  "  If  I 
did  I  should  certainly  choose  some  one  not  quite  old  enough 
to  be  my  mother." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "    Dynely  asks,  savagely. 


304  "LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I." 

"  I  mean  Felicia,  of  course — thirty-five  if  she's  a  day. 
Oh,  yes,  she  is — I've  heard  all  about  her.  She  wears  well, 
but  she's  every  hour  of  it.  And  the  most  dangerous  woman 
the  sun  shines  on." 

"  I  wonder,  then,  you  fling  yourself  into  the  jaws  of  the 
lioness,"  Eric  retorts,  with  another  bitter  sneer.  "You 
make  a  martyr  of  yourself  with  the  best  grace  possible — 
make  love  con  amore  as  though  you  enjoyed  it,  in  fact." 

"  I  didn't  come  to  see  Felicia,"  Terry  says,  quietly.  «*  I 
came  to  see  you" 

Eric's  eyes  flash  fire.  He  turns  to  speak,  but  Denni- 
son  stops  him. 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  he  says,  in  the  same  quiet,  resolute 
tone.  "  You  are  angry,  and  excited,  and  jealous.  Jealous  ! 
faugh  !  of  such  a  woman  as  that !  Do  you  know  that  your 
infatuation  for  her — your  neglect  of  your  wife — is  the  talk  of 
Paris — the  talk  of  London  ? — for  in  London  it  reached  me." 

A  furious  oath  is  Eric's  answer  as  he  wrenches  his  arm 
free. 

"  And  you  came  after  me  as  my  keeper,  as  a  d —  spy  ! " 
he  cries,  hoarse  with  passion. 

"  I  came  after  you  as  your  friend,  as  hers"  Terry  an 
swers,  his  own  eyes  kindling.  "  It  is  early  days,  Dynely, 
to  neglect  your  bride — to  leave  her  there,  utterly  forsaken 
and  alone,  to  break  her  heart  in  solitude,  while  you  fling 
gifts  in  the  lap,  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  a  Jezebel  like  that.  I 
do  not  set  up  as  your  keeper — as  any  man's — but  I  will  not 
stand  by  and  see  her  heart-broken,  her  life  blighted,  while  I 
can  raise  my  voice  to  prevent.  Eric !  if  you  had  seen 
her  as  I  did,  three  hours  ago,  pale,  crushed,  heart-broken — " 

"  '  Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbor's  wife  ! '  My  wise 
Terry,  my  virtuous  Terry,  my  pink  and  pattern  of  all  moral 
ity,  did  you  ever  hear  that?  You're  as  much  in  love  with 
Lady  Dynely  as  you  ever  were  with  Crystal  Higgins.  I 
only  wonder  you  took  the  trouble  to  come.  Would  it  not 
have  been  pleasanter  to  have  stayed  behind  and  soothed  her 
sorrows  with  your  pathetic  and  pious  conversation  ?  " 

Terry  looks  at  him — at  the  flushed,  furious  face — at  the 
blue  eyes  lurid  with  rage,  in  wonder — almost  in  horror. 


"LA   BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I."  305 

"  Good  Heaven  !  "  he  says,  "  is  this  Eric?  If  any  other 
living  man  had  said  as  much,  or  half  as  much,  I  would  have 
knocked  him  down.  But  I  see  how  it  is  ;  that  devilish  sor 
ceress  has  turned  your  brain.  Well — she  has  turned  stronger 
brains,  but  she  shall  not  make  an  absolute  fool  of  you. 
Eric  !  dear  old  man,  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you,  if  I 
can  help  it.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  I  pro 
mised  little  Crystal  to  fetch  you  home  in  an  hour.  It's  aw 
fully  lonely  in  that  big  hotel  for  her,  poor  child,  and  she  was 
never  used  to  being  alone,  you  know." 

His  voice  softened.  "  Ah,  poor  little  Crystal ! "  he 
thinks,  with  a  great  heart-pang,  "if  your  married  life  begins 
like  this,  how  in  Heaven's  name  will  it  end ! " 

"So!"  Eric  says  between  his  set  teeth,  "she  sent  you 
after  me,  did  she  ? — a  naughty  little  boy  to  be  brought  home 
and  whipped !  Perhaps  she  also  told  you  where  to  find 
me  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  nothing — nothing,  Eric,  and  you  know  it," 
Terry  answers,  sternly.  "  Is  it  likely  she  would  discuss  her 
husband  with  any  one  ?  It  wasn't  difficult  to  find  you. 
The  very  street  gamins  could  have  told  me,  I  fancy,  so  well 
is  your  new  infatuation  known,  Eric,  old  fellow,  we  have 
been  like  brothers  in  the  past,  don't  let  us  quarrel  now. 
Keep  clear  of  that  woman — she's  dangerous — awfully  dan 
gerous,  I  tell  you.  She  has  ruined  the  lives  of  a  score  of 
men — don't  let  her  ruin  yours.  Don't  let  her  break  Crys 
tal's  heart — Crystal,  whose  whole  life  is  bound  up  in  yours. 
Pity  her,  Eric — poor  little  soul — if  you  have  none  for  your 
self." 

Again  Eric  laughs  harshly  and  long. 

"  Hear  him,  ye  gods !  Terry  Dennison  in  the  role 
of  parson  !  Is  your  sermon  quite  finished,  old  boy  ? — 
because  here  we  are.  Or  is  this  but  a  prelude  to  a  few  more 
to  come  ?  How  well  the  patronizing  elder-brother  tone 
comes  from  you — you,  of  all  men — the  dependant  of  my 
mother's  bounty.  She  comes  to  Paris  next  week — what  fine 
stories  you  will  have  to  tell  her — what  eloquent  lectures  you 
can  prepare  together.  Let  me  tell  you  this,  once  and  for 
ill,  Dennison,"  he  says,  white  with  anger,  his  blue  eyes 


306  ULA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCL" 

aflame — "  I'll  have  no  sneaking  or  spying  on  my  actions — I'll 
be  taken  to  task  by  no  man  alive,  least  of  all  by  you  !  Let 
there  be  an  end  of  this  at  once  and  forever,  or  by — you'll 
repent  it ! " 

Then  he  turns,  dashes  up  the  wide  stairway,  and  Terry  is 
ilone. 


CHAPTER    III. 

IN   THE    STREETS. 

[JERRY  stands  for  a  while  irresolute.  One  by  one 
the  clocks  of  the  great  city  chime  out  the  hour  af 
ter  midnight ;  a  few  belated  pedestrians,  a  few 
nacres  fly  past.  Even  Paris  is  settling  itself  for  its 
night's  sleep,  but  Dennison  has  no  thought  of  sleeping.  It 
is  of  no  use  mounting  to  his  cock-loft  under  the  eaves  in  his 
present  disturbed  state  of  mind — sleep  and  he  will  be 
strangers  for  hours  to  come.  Eric  has  robbed  him  of  more 
than  one  night's  rest  since  last  September — since  that  event 
ful  day  of  the  Lincolnshire  picnic,  when  all  that  was  bright 
est  and  sweetest  in  his  life  went  out  of  it  forever.  Well,  so 
that  he  had  been  true,  so  that  he  made  her  happy,  Terry 
could  have  borne  his  pain  with  patient  heroism  to  the  end  ; 
but  to-night,  the  old,  half-healed  pang  comes  back  sharp  and 
bitter  as  ever.  Only  six  weeks  a  bride — six  weeks,  and 
neglected,  outraged  already — his  brief,  hot  fancy  dust  and 
ashes — Felicia,  the  actress,  preferred  before  Crystal,  the 
wife. 

"He's  a  villain,"  Terry  thought,  savagely;  "he's  worse 
than  a  villain — he's  a  fool !  Yes,  by  Jove  !  as  they  say  over 
here,  a  fool  of  the  fourth  story." 

He  glanced  up  at  the  window  where  four  hours  ago 
Crystal  had  wistfully  sat.  Lights  still  burned  there.  Was 
Eric  taking  her  to  task  for  what  he  had  done — little  Crystal, 
to  whom  no  one  ever  spoke  a  harsh  word  !  He  could  not 
stand  there  with  the  thought  in  his  mind — he  turned,  and 
without  knowing  or  caring  whither,  made  his  way  through 
the  now  almost  silent  city  streets. 

The  drizzling  rain  that  had  begun  to  fall  at  midnight  was 
falling  still,  not  heavily,  but  with  a  small,  soaking  persist- 


308  IN  THE  STREETS. 

ence,  that  showed  it  meant  to  keep  it  up  until  morning. 
Smoking  as  he  went,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets 
of  his  overcoat,  Dennison  strolled  on  and  on,  quite  heedless 
where  he  went,  or  how  far.  His  thoughts  were  still  with 
Crystal — what  should  he  do  for  her?  how  help  her  ?  It 
was  useless,  worse  than  useless  to  remonstrate  with  Eric — 
no  one  knew  better  than  Terry  how  hopelessly  and  utterly 
obstinate  opposition  made  him.  If  he  could  only  induce 
him  to  quit  Paris.  His  mother  was  coming;  but  Terry 
knew  how  little  influence  his  mother  had  over  him  where  the 
gratification  of  his  own  fancy  was  concerned.  For  Eric  him 
self  it  did  not  so  much  matter — he  could  afford  to  spend  a 
few  thousands  in  bracelets  and  bouquets  for  the  dark-eyed 
dancer,  until  his  fevensh  fancy  burned  itself  out  as  so  many 
scores  of  other  feverish  fancies  had  done ;  it  was  Crystal 
who  was  to  be  considered — Crystal,  who  lived  but  in  his 
love,  who  drooped  already  like  a  broken  lily — whose  heart 
he  was  breaking  as  thoughtlessly  and  as  surely  as  ever  care 
less  child  broke  the  toy  of  which  it  had  wearied. 

"I'll  speak  to  Felicia  herself,"  Terry  thought,  with  a  last 
desperate  impulse;  "she  can't  be  all  bad — no  one  is,  they 
say,  and  I  have  heard  stories  of  her  lavish  generosity  to  the 
poor,  and  all  that.  Even  so  insatiable  a  coquette  as  she  is 
may  spare  one  victim.  I'll  go  to  her  to-morrow  and  tell  her 
how  it  is,  tell  her  of  the  poor  little  girl-wife  he  neglects  for 
her,  and  ask  her  to  shut  the  door  in  his  face.  She  told  me 
once,  I  remember,  after  that  runaway  scrape,  to  ask  any 
favor  I  chose,  '  though  it  were  half  her  kingdom,'  and  I 
should  have  it.  I  never  wanted  anything  of  her  before — let's 
see  if  she  will  keep  her  promise  to-morrow." 

The  idea  was  a  relief.  His  train  of  thought  broke — much 
thinking  was  not  in  Terry's  line — he  paused  suddenly  and 
looked  about  him.  For  the  first  time  he  became  aware  that 
he  had  lost  his  way,  that  the  night  was  advancing,  that  it 
was  black,  chill  and  rainy,  and  that  the  sooner  he  retraced 
his  steps  the  better.  As  he  turned,  a  cry,  faint  and  far  otf, 
reached  his  ear — a  cry  of  pain  or  fear — then  another,  then 
another.  It  was  a  woman's  voice,  a  woman  in  trouble.  In 
stantly  Terry  plunged  in  the  direction,  running  full  speed. 


IN  THE  STREETS.  309 

The  cry  was  repeated,  nearer  this  time — a  shrill,  sharp  cry 
of  affright  He  made  for  the  sound,  turned  a  corner,  and 
found  himself  in  a  narrow,  dark  street,  high  houses  frowning 
on  either  hand,  and  a  woman,  flying,  panting,  and  crying 
out,  with  two  men  in  hot  pursuit. 

"  Hallo  ! "  Dennison  cried,  sending  his  strong,  hearty, 
English  voice  through  the  empty,  silent  street,  "what  the 
deuce  is  to  pay  here  ?  " 

With  a  shrill  scream  of  delight  the  flying  figure  made  for 
him  and  clutched  his  arm,  panting  for  breath. 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  English,"  she  gasped,  in  that  language  ; 
"  save  me  from  those  horrid  men  !  " 

Terry  passed  his  right  arm  around  her.  One  of  the  men, 
a  beetle-browed,  black-bearded  Frenchman,  came  insolently 
up,  and  without  further  parley  Mr.  Dennison  shot  out  his 
left  in  the  most  scientific  manner,  and  laid  him  on  the  pave 
ment.  His  companion  paused  a  second  to  see  his  fellow's 
fate,  and  then  precipitately  fled. 

"And  unless  we  want  the  gendarmes  to  come  up  and 
march  us  to  the  station,  we  had  better  follow  his  example,  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Dennison  to  his  fair  friend. 

He  looked  down  as  he  spoke  with  some  curiosity.  An 
Englishwoman  alone  and  belated  at  this  hour,  in  the  streets 
of  Paris,  was  a  curiosity.  The  light  of  a  street  lamp  fell  full 
upon  her.  A  woman  !  why,  she  was  a  child,  or  little  better, 
a  small,  dark,  elfish-looking  object,  with  two  wild  black  eyes 
set  in  a  minute  white  face,  and  a  dishevelled  cloud  of  black 
hair,  falling  all  wet  and  disordered  over  her  shoulders. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  was  Dennison's  first  astounded  ques 
tion. 

The  wild  black  eyes  lifted  themselves  to  his  face — two 
small  hands  clutched  his  arm  tightly.  Where  had  he  seen 
eyes  like  those  before  ? 

"  Oh,  sir  !  don't  leave  me,  please  !  I  am  so  afraid  !  it  is 
so  late." 

<;  Late  !  Egad,  I  should  think  so.  Rather  late  fora  little 
girl  to  be  wandering  the  streets  of  any  city,  French  or  Eng 
lish.  You  are  a  little  girl,  aren't  you  ?"  doubtfully. 

"I  am  sixteen  years  and  six  months — and  I  didn't  want 


310  IN  THE  STREETS. 

to  wander  the  streets.  I  lost  my  way,"  was  the  answer, 
somewhat  angrily  given. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  Gordon  Kennedy." 

"  And  how  do  you  come  to  have  lost  your  way,  if  I  may 
ask,  Miss  Gordon  Kennedy  ?" 

The  big  black  eyes  lifted  themselves  again  to  his  face  in 
solemn,  searching  scrutiny.  Evidently  the  gaze  was  reassur 
ing  ;  she  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  and  clung  confidently  to 
his  arm.  But  again  Terry  was  nonplussed — where  had  he 
seen  some  one  like  this  before  ? 

"  I  came  from  Scotland — from  Glasgow,"  the  girl  an 
swered,  with  a  certain  old-womanish  precision.  "  I  came 
in  search  of  a  person  residing  in  Paris.  I  reached  here  in 
the  train  to-night.  I  have  very  little  money,  hardly  any,  and 
I  was  foolish  enough  to  try  and  find  the  person  I  wanted  on 
foot,  instead  of  in  a  cab.  I  lost  my  way  naturally  ;  and  I 
know  so  little  French,  and  speak  it  so  badly  that  I  could  not 
make  myself  understood.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  ;  I 
wandered  on  and  on  ;  it  grew  dreadfully  late ;  I  thought  I 
would  stay  in  a  church  porch  until  morning  out  of  the  rain. 
While  I  was  looking  about  for  one,  those  two  dreadful  men  fol 
lowed  and  spoke  to  me.  I  ran  away  and  they  pursued.  I 
screamed  for  help  and  you  came.  And  I  am  very,  very 
much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  concluded  Miss  Gordon  Ken 
nedy,  with  another  solemn,  upward,  grateful  glance  of  the 
lustrous  eyes. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  whether  I  am  any  better  than  the 
two  men  you  fled  from  ?  "  Terry  asked,  with  a  half-laugh. 

"  Ah,  sir,  you  are  English,  and  you  have  a  good  face.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  you"  the  girl  answered,  with  a  second  pro 
found  sigh  of  relief. 

"Thank  you,"  Terry  said,  still  laughing  ;  "it  is  the  high 
est  compliment  ever  paid  me  in  my  life.  Well,  Miss 
Kennedy,  it  is  getting  on  for  two  o'clock,  and  is  raining,  as 
you  see.  Shall  I  look  you  up  a  convenient  church  porch, 
or  what  shall  I  do  with  you  ?  Even  a  church  porch  in  Paris 
on  a  wet  night  is  not  altogether  a  desirable  lodging  for  a 
young  lady  of  sixteen.  Where  shall  I  take  you  ?  " 


IN  THE  STREETS.  311 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  girl  answered,  with  an  air  of  anxious 
distress.  "  If  it  were  not  so  late,  so  dreadfully  late,  I  might 
try  to  find  her.  Tell  me,  sir,  are  all  the  theatres  closed  yet  ?  " 

"  Closed  two  hours  ago.  You  don't  think  of  exchanging 
the  church  porch  for  a  theatre,  do  you,  mam'selle  ?" 

*'  Don't  laugh  at  me,"  she  returned,  with  a  sudden  flash  of 
the  black  eyes ;  "  there's  nothing  to  laugh  at.  I  want  to 
find  a  person  who  belongs  to  a  theatre — a  lady,  an  actress. 
She  plays  at  the  Varieties." 

"At  the  Varieties?"  Terry  repeated,  a  little  startled. 
The  flashing  black  eyes  had  once  more  discomfited  him  by 
their  resemblance  to  other  eyes  he  had  somewhere  seen.  "  I 
know  some  of  the  ladies  who  play  at  the  Varieties.  May  I 
ask  what  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  It  is  Madame  Felicia." 

They  were  walking  swiftly  along  through  the  rain.  At 
these  words  Dennison  suddenly  stood  still.  The  girl  looked 
up  at  him  in  surprise.  Again,  by  the  glare  of  the  street 
lamps,  that  strange,  striking  resemblance  flashed  upon  him. 
Madame  Felicia !  Why,  this  child  was  sufficiently  like 
Madame  Felicia  to  be  her  own  daughter.  Well — Terry  sup 
pressed  a  whistle,  and  still  stared  blankly  down  at  his  little 
companion. 

"  Well,"  she  cried,  impatiently,  "  what  is  it  ? — Why  do  you 
look  at  me  so  ?  Have  I  said  anything  strange  ?  Do  you 
know,"  with  a  sudden  glow  of  hope,  "  Madame  Felicia  ?  " 

"  Come  on,"  was  Terry's  answer  ;  "  you'll  get  your  death 
standing  here  in  the  rain.  Do  I  know  Madame  Felicia  ? 
Well — a  little.  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  don't !     Then,  why— if  I  may  ask—" 

The  dark  eyes  look  up  at  him  again  with  another  petulant 
flash. 

"  No,  you  may  not  ask  !  I  can't  tell  you.  I  want  to  find 
Madame  Felicia — the  actress  who  plays  at  the  Varieties. 
That  is  all  I  intend  to  tell  you.  I  have  come  all  the  way 
from  Glasgow  alone  to  find  her.  I  must  find  her — to-night, 
if  possible.  She  is  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world.  Oh, 
sir,  you  have  been  very  good  to  me.  You  have  done  me  a 


312  IN  THE  STREETS. 

great  service — I  know  you  have  a  kind  heart ;  take  pity  on 
me  and,  if  you  know  her,  take  me  to  her." 

'  Does  she  expect  you  ?  "  Terry  asked,  staggered. 

"  No,  sir,  she  does  not ;  but  all  the  same  she  will  take  care 
of  me." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  of  that  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,  sir." 

11  Have  you  ever  met  Madame  Felicia?  " 

"  Never  to  remembet  her,  but  I  know  what  she  is  like. 
It  is  a  great  many  years  since  she  came  to  see  me.  We 
lived  in  Canada  then." 

"  We — whom  ?  " 

"  Joan  and  me.  Joan  is  my  foster-mother,  and  she  is 
dead.  But  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  this.  I  won't  tell 
you  ! "  with  a  child's  impatient  petulance  again. 

"  You  speak  of  Madame  Felicia  visiting  you  in  Canada," 
Terry  went  on,  taking  no  notice  of  the  brief  outbreak  of 
anger ;  "  you  must  make  a  mistake,  mademoiselle.  The 
Madame  Felicia  I  know  was  never  in  Canada  in  her  life." 

"  Look  here  !  "  cried  the  girl,  excitedly.  She  disengaged 
her  arm,  and  produced  a  photograph  from  the  pocket  of 
her  dress.  "  Look  at  this  !  Is  your  Madame  Felicia  any 
thing  like  this  ?  " 

They  pause  again — again  beneath  a  street  lamp — and  he 
looks  at  the  picture.  Madame  Felicia,  sure  enough — to 
the  life — a  softly  tinted,  perfect  likeness. 

"Well?"  the  girl  impatiently  demands.  He  hands  it 
back  and  looks  at  her  with  strongest  curiosity. 

"  That  is  my  Madame  Felicia.  There  is  but  one  such 
face  as  that  on  earth.  And,  I  repeat  again,  she  never  was 
in  Canada." 

"And  I  repeat  she  was!"  she  flashed  out  angrily. 
"  Why  do  you  contradict  me  ?  I  know  better  !  It  is  very 
impolite  !  She  was  in  Canada  !  she  was  !  she  was  !  She 
lived  there — I  was  born  there — " 

She  paused.  In  her  excited  vehemence  she  had  betrayed 
herself.  She  clasped  hej  hands  and  looked  up  at  him  wildly. 

"  I — I— didn't  mean  that !  "  she  gasped.  "  I— I— didn't 
mean  anything ! " 


IN  THE  STREETS.  313 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  Dennison  responded,  unable  to  re 
press  a  smile.  What  a  child  she  evidently  was,  what  a 
passionate,  excitable,  wilful  child  ! 

"  Oh,  take  me  to  her ! "  she  cried,  with  a  sort  of  sob. 
"  It  is  so  late,  so  cold,  so  wet !  I  never  was  out  at  this 
time  of  night  with  a  strange  man  before.  What  would  Joan 
say  ?  Ah,  poor  Joan  ! " 

She  sighed  bitterly  and  clung  to  him,  looking  about  at  the 
unfamiliar  scene,  her  eyes  dusk  with  bewilderment  and 
terror. 

"Joan  was  your  mother?"  Terry  insinuated;  "no,  by 
the  bye,  your  foster-mother  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  matter  to  you  what  she  was  !  "  retorts  Miss 
Kennedy,  with  a  sudden  return  to  sharpness.  "  WTili  you 
take  me  to  Madame  Felicia,  or  will  you  not  ? — there  ! " 

"  My  dear  child,  Madame  Felicia  will  be  in  bed." 

"  She  will  get  up  when  she  hears  who  I  am.  Oh  !  please 
take  me  to  her  house — only  to  her  house.  She  will  let  me 
in.  She  will  take  care  of  me  when  she  hears  who  I  am." 

"  When  she  hears  who  you  are,"  Terry  thought,  looking 
at  the  dark,  passionate,  pleading,  upturned  face — at  the 
large,  dilated  black  eyes.  "  She  was  in  Canada,  and  you 
were  born  there  !  There  is  a  story  in  the  past,  then,  that 
madame  keeps  as  a  sealed  book.  I  always  thought  so — I 
always  thought  there  was  more  in  her  hatred  of  America  than 
met  the  eye." 

"  Will  you  take  me  to  her — say  ?  "  cried  the  girl,  giving 
his  arm  an  angry,  impatient  shake,  "or  are  you  a  wicked 
man  after  all,  like  the  Frenchman  you  knocked  down  ?  " 

"  A  wicked  man  ?"  Terry  repeated,  laughing,  and  with  a 
sort  of  pity  in  his  face  for  this  unsophisticated  child.  "  My 
dear  little  girl,  no.  I  am  the  incarnation  of  every  do 
mestic  and  Christian  virtue,  and  I  will  take  you  to  Madame 
Felicia  instanter.  We  are  near  her  house  now — I  only  hope 
she  will  take  you  in.  If  she  will  not,  some  one  else  shall. 
Gracious  powers  ! "  he  thought,  "  if  this  outspoken  child 
had  fallen  into  other  hands." 

The  girl  drew  a  long  breath,  and  gave  the  arm  she  had  so 
lately  shaken  a  little,  grateful  squeeze. 
14 


314 


THE   STREETS. 


"  You  are  good.  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  cross  with  you,  but 
I  hate  to  be  contradicted.  She  will  take  care  of  me  ;  don't 
you  be  afraid,  and  she  will  thank  you  too.  What  is  your 
name  ? " 

:'  Terry,  mademoiselle." 

"  Terry  what  ?  " 

"Terry  Dennison  ;  and  yours  you  say  is  Gordon  Ken 
nedy?  An  odd  name  for  a  young  lady." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it?  But  the  Gordon  was  after  my  father,  and 
the  Kennedy  was  after  Joan.  Joan  always  called  me 
Donny,  for  short." 

"  The  Kennedy  was  after  Joan,  was  it  ?  That's  odd  too. 
Had  your  father  no  other  name  than  Gordon  ?  Was  that 
his  family  name  ?  " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  so  many  questions  !"  was  Miss 
Kennedy's  answer,  with  still  another  return  to  sharpness. 
"  It  is  awfully  impolite  to  ask  questions.  My  name  is  Gor 
don  Kennedy,  and  i  want  to  go  to  Madame  Felicia — that's 
enough  for  you  to  know." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoiselle,"  Terry  said,  laughing  ; 
"I  stand  rebuked.  I  won't  offend  again.  Here  we  are  at 
Felicia's,  and  lights  are  burning  yet.  Stand  here  ;  1  will  in 
quire  at  the  loge  if  madame  is  to  be  seen." 

He  left  her  and  hastened  to  make  inquiries.  The  house 
hold  of  madame  had  not  yet  retired — raadame's  chasseur,  in 
gorgeous  livery,  \vas  produced,  who  in  voluble  French  de 
clared  it  to  be  utterly  impossible  to  disarrange  madame  at 
that  hour. 

"Call  madame' s  maid,"  Dennison  said,  authoritatively  ; 
"it's  a  matter  of  the  utmost  importance  to  madame  herself. 
I  will  explain  to  her." 

The  maid  was  reluctantly  summoned.  Dennison  hastened 
back  to  his  waiting  protegee. 

"  Have  you  anything — a  note,  a  token  to  send  to  madame 
that  will  prove  your  identity  ?  She  will  not  see  you  else,"  he 
explained. 

The  girl  produced  from  her  pocket  a  small  sealed  packet, 
and  put  it  confidently  in  his  hand. 

"Joan  gave  me   that  before  she  died,"  she  said.     "She 


IN  THE  STREETS.  315 

told  me  to  give  it  to  Madame  Felicia  when  I  met  her.  You 
send  it  to  her,  and  all  will  be  right." 

The  femme  de  chambre  appeared,  sleepy  and  sulky. 
Madame  could  see  no  one  at  such  an  hour.  Madame  had 
already  retired — she  could  not  dream  of  disturbing  madame, 
Monsieur's  business  must  wait  until  to-morrow.  Monsieur 
cut  short  the  flow  of  French  eloquence  by  slipping  a  glitter 
ing  Napoleon  in  one  hand  and  the  packet  in  the  other. 

"  Give  madame  that,  with  Mr.  Dennison's  compliments. 
Tell  her  that  the  young  lady — Gordon  Kennedy — is  here, 
just  arrived  from  Scotland,  and  waiting  to  see  her." 

The  Frenchwoman  vanished.  In  silence,  Dennison  and 
the  young  girl  stood  and  waited.  How  would  it  end  ? 

Would  madame  receive  her?  Or  would  she  treat  her  as  an 
impostor,  and  send  her  away  ?  His  own  pulses  quickened  a 
little  with  the  suspense.  Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes,  and  the 
maid  did  not  appear. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  Terry  asked  very  gently,  as  the  girl 
gave  an  irrepressible  shiver  from  head  to  foot. 

She  looked  at  him,  with  those  sombre,  spectral  dark  eyes, 
so  like,  yet  so  unlike  Felicia's  own. 

"  I  am  afraid"  she  answered,  her  teeth  chattering.  "  I 
don't  know  !  what  if  she  will  not  receive  me  after  all?  She 
is  a  great  lady — I  am  so  poor,  so  wretched.  She  may  not 
want  me.  Oh,  if  she  does  not,  what  will  become  of 
me?" 

"  I  will  care  for  you,"  he  answered  kindly.  "  My  dear 
child,  don't  tremble  so.  Ah  !  here  comes  the  woman  now." 

The  maid  returned,  curiosity  painted  on  every  feature  of 
her  face. 

"  Madame  would  see  mademoiselle.  Mademoiselle  was 
to  come  to  madame  at  once." 

With  a  little  cry  of  joy  the  girl  sprang  forward. 

"  I  knew  she  would !  I  knew  she  would  !  "  she  said,  with 
a  sob.  Then  she  reached  out  both  hands  to  Dennison. 
"  You  were  so  good  !  I  will  never  forget  you — never  !  I 
thank  you  with  all  my  heart ! " 

He  pressed  the  little  cold  hands  kindly,  and  watched  her 
out  of  sight.  Then  he  started  at  a  rapid  pace  for  his  hotel. 


316  IN  THE  STREETS. 

"  So  ! "  lie  thought ;  "  an  odd  adventure,  surely  !  I  seem 
destined  to  be  mixed  up  in  Madame  Felicia's  affairs.  Will 
she  be  grateful,  or  the  reverse,  for  this  night's  work,  I  won 
der  ?  That  girl's  maternity  is  written  in  her  face — although, 
of  course,  she  might  be  Felicia's  sister.  I  wish  I  could  get 
a  hold  upon  her  of  any  sort,  yes,  of  any  sort,  that  would 
make  her  hear  to  reason  about  Dynely.  Come  what  may, 
I  don't  care  how,  he  must  be  freed  from  her  thrall." 

He  had  reached  his  hotel.  It  was  past  two  now.  But  few 
lights  burned — Eric's  rooms  were  in  darkness. 

Rather  fagged,  Terry  made  his  way  to  his  own  sky-parlor, 
and  soon  forgot  his  first  eventful  Paris  evening  in  sound, 
fatigued  sleep. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

DONNY. 

'(HE  departure  of  Lord  Dynely  and  Dennison  was 
the  signal  for  the  departure  of  the  rest  of  madame's 
guests.  Half  an  hour  later  and  the  lights  were 
fled,  the  garlands  dead,  and  Felicia  was  alone  in 
her  own  pretty,  rose-hung,  gas-lit  drawing-room.  She  lay 
back  in  the  soft  depths  of  her  fauteuil,  a  half-smile  on  her 
lips,  too  luxuriously  indolent  as  yet  even  to  make  the  exer 
tion  of  retiring.  The  picture  "  How  the  Night  Fell "  was 
the  object  upon  which  her  long,  lazy  eyes  rested,  while  that 
well-satisfied  smile  curled  her  thin  red  lips. 

"  So  he  is  coming,"  she  was  thinking ;  "  and  he  is  to  be 
married.  To  be  married  to  France  Forrester,  one  of  the 
very  proudest  girls  in  England,  as  I  have  heard.  She  knows 
all  about  my  story,  no  doubt.  And  she  thinks,  and  he  thinks, 
and  they  all  think,  I  was  killed  in  that  railway  accident  so 
many  years  ago.  Her  mother  was  a  French  Canadian ;  and 
she  is  of  her  mother's  religion,  so  they  tell  me ;  and  even  if 
her  pride  would  permit,  her  religion  would  forbid  her  to 
marry  a  man  who  is  the  husband  of  one  living  divorced  wife. 
And  this,  then,  is  the  form  my  vengeance  is  to  take  after  all. 
I  have  wondered  so  often,  so  often — it  seemed  so  impossible 
my  ever  being  able  to  reach  him,  my  ever  being  able  to 
make  him  suffer  one  tithe  of  what  he  has  made  me.  But, 
*I  have  him  on  the  hip'  now.  Through  his  love  for 
this  girl  I  will  stab  him  to  the  heart.  I  will  part  them 
and  stand  between  them — ay,  even  if  I  have  to  make  my  his 
tory  patent  to  the  world.  If  I  have  to  confess  to  Di  Venturing 
to  whom  I  have  lied  so  long.  I  will  prevent  his  marriage  if 
I  have  to  do  it  by  the  forfeit  of  my  own." 

She  paused  a  moment  to  roll  up  and  light  a  rose-scented 
cigarette,  her  face  clouding  a  little  at  her  own  thoughts. 


DONNY. 

"  It  will  be  a  sacrifice  too,  if  I  should  have  to  make  things 
public,  to  confess  to  the  prince.  He  knows  nothing  of  my 
past  life,  except  the  pretty  little  romance  I  invented  for  his 
benefit.  At  my  worst  he  believes  me  to  be  an  outra 
geous  coquette  with  more  head  than  heart,  not  in  the  least 
likely  to  be  led  astray  by  the  tender  passion,  and  with  no 
false  pride  to  stand  in  the  way  of  my  accepting  costly  pres 
ents.  Indeed,  in  the  very  fishy  state  of  the  prince's  o\vn 
exchequer  since  I  have  known  him,  the  diamond  bracelets, 
etcetra,  were  not  at  all  obnoxious  in  his  sight."  She  lifted 
her  dusk,  lovely  arm,  and  looked  with  glittering  eyes 
at  the  broad  band  of  yellow  gold,  ablaze  with  brilliants. 
"What  a  fool  that  boy  lordling  is ! "  she  thought,  contemp 
tuously  ;  "so  great  a  fool  that  there  is  really  no  credit  in 
twisting  him  round  one's  finger.  And  he  has  a  bride  of  six 
weeks'  standing,  they  tell  me — neglected  and  alone  for  me — 
at  the  Louvre.  Ah !  these  brides ! "  with  a  soft  laugh. 
"  She  is  not  the  first  whose  bridegroom  has  left  her  to  spend 
the  honeymoon  at  my  feet.  He  is  a  relative  of  CarylFs, 
too.  Will  his  neglect  of  her,  and  besotted  admiration  of 
me,  be  another  dagger  to  help  stab  him  ?  If  there  were  no 
bracelets  in  question  I  think  that  motive  would  be  strong 
enough  to  make  me  hold  fast." 

She  flung  away  her  cigarette  and  began  abruptly  drawing 
off  the  many  rich  rings  with  which  her  fingers  were  loaded. 
On  the  third  finger  of  the  left  hand,  one — a  plain  band  of 
gold,  worn  thin  by  time — alone  remained — the  only  one  she 
did  not  remove.  She  lifted  her  pretty,  dimpled  brown  hand, 
and  gazed  at  it  darkly. 

"  I  wonder  why  I  have  worn  you  all  this  time  ? "  she 
mused.  "  My  wedding  ring !  that  for  sixteen  years  has 
meant  nothing — less  than  nothing.  And  yet  by  day  and  by 
night,  I  have  worn  you  in  memory  of  that  dead  time — • 
of  that  brief  five  months,  when  I  was  so  happy,  as  I  have 
never,  in  the  hours  of  my  greatest  triumph,  been  happy  since. 
Di  Venturini  says  it  is  not  in  me  to  love.  He  is  in  love,  poor 
little  old  idiot !  If  he  could  have  seen  me  then  !  " 

Her  hands  fell  heavily  in  her  lap,  she  sighed  drearily. 

"  How  happy  I  was !    how  1  did   love  that   man !  what 


DONNY.  319 

a  good  woman  I  might  have  been  if  he  would  have  but  for 
given  and  trusted  me.  But  he  spurned  me,  he  drove  me  to 
desperation,  to  death  nearly.  What  did  he  care  ?  I  vowed 
my  turn  would  come — for  sixteen  years  I  have  waited,  and  it 
has  not.  But  the  longest  lane  has  its  turning,  and  my  hour 
is  now." 

She  arose  and  walked  up  and  down,  her  floating  muslin 
and  laces  sweeping  behind  her.  Once  she  paused  before  the 
picture,  leaning  over  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  looking  up  at 
it  with  a  curious  smile. 

"  What  an  agonized  face  he  has  painted,"  she  said  softly ; 
'•what  anguish  and  despair  in  those  wild  eyes.  Did  I 
really  look  like  that,  I  wonder  ?  and  what  was  there  in  him 
that  I  should  wear  that  tortured  face  for  his  loss.  Good 
Heaven  !  if  it  comes  to  that,  what  is  there  in  any  man  that 
women  should  go  mad  for  their  loss  or  gain — selfish,  reckless 
fools,  one  and  all !  Even  he  is  ready  to  paint  his  own  folly 
and  madness  of  the  past,  to  make  money  of  it  in  the 
present." 

She  turned  away  with  an  impatient,  scornful  last  glance 
and  slowly  left  the  room.  Up  in  her  own  chamber,  she  rang 
for  her  maid,  and  with  a  yawn  resigned  herself  into  her  hands 
for  the  night. 

"  If  I  can  only  make  it  all  right  with  the  prince."  she 
mused,  as  the  Frenchwoman  brushed  out  her  thick,  black 
hair.  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  him,  particularly  now,  as  he  has 
come  to  his  own  again.  Madame  la  Princesse  Di  Venturini ! 
My  faith!  a  rise  in  life  for  the  little  beggarly  singer  of  ihe 
New  York  concert  hall,  for  poor  old  Major  Lovell's  accom 
plice,  for  Gordon  Caryll's  cast-off  wife.  No,  I  must  not  lose 
the  prize  if  I  can,  and  he  is  most  horribly  jealous.  Let  the 
truth  reach  him — that  I  have  had  a  husband,  that  I  have  a 
daughter,  and  much  as  he  is  infatuated,  I  really  and  truly 
believe  he  will  throw  me  over." 

Her  thoughts  wandered  off  into  another  channel,  suggested 
by  the  incidental  remembrance  of  her  daughter. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  the  girl?"  she  thought,  ''now 
that  Joan  is  dead,  and  Joan's  boor  of  a  husband  does  not 
want  her.  He  will  be  sending  her  to  me  one  of  these  cays 


32O  DONNY. 

if  I  do  not  take  care.  I  must  answer  his  insolent  letter  to 
morrow,  and  tell  him  at  all  risks  to  keep  her  from  coming 
here.  From  what  Joan  has  written  of  her,  I  believe  her  to 
be  quite  capable  of  it." 

Madame' s  toilette  de  nuit  was  by  this  time  complete.  The 
maid  had  departed,  and  madame  was  in  the  very  act  of  de 
positing  her  loveliness  between  the  lace  and  linen  of  the 
rose-curtained  bed,  when  the  woman  suddenly  and  excitedly 
reappeared,  the  packet  in  her  hand.  In  a  dozen  voluble 
sentences  she  related  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

"A  tall,  blond  English  monsieur — Deens-yong — it  was 
impossible  to  pronounce  the  name,  but  one  of  the  English 
gentlemen  who  had  been  present  this  evening,  and  a  young 
lady  with  him,  who  insisted  upon  seeing  madame.  and  Mon 
sieur  Deens-yong,  with  his  compliments,  had  sent  madame 
this." 

"  Mr.  Dennison,"  madame  repeated,  aghast,  "  and  a  young 
lady."  She  looked  at  the  superscription  and  turned  white. 
u  Mon  Dieu!"  she  thought,  in  horror,  "Joan's  writing! 
Can  it  be  possible  she  is  here  ?  " 

It  was  quite  possible — the  contents  of  the  little  packet  left 
no  doubt.  It  was  a  rare  thing  for  madame  to  turn  pale, 
but  the  dusk  complexion  faded  to  a  sickly  white  by  the  time 
she  had  finished  the  letter. 

"  I  will  see  this  young  person,  Pauline,  mon  enfant,"  she 
said  carelessly,  feeling  the  needle-like  eyes  of  the  waiting 
woman  on  her.  "  Show  her  up  here  at  once,  and  wait  un 
til  I  ring  ;  I  may  need  you." 

The  woman  departed,  marvelling  much.  And  Felicia, 
throwing  a  dressing-gown  over  her  night  robe,  and  thrusting 
her  feet  into  slippers,  sat  down  to  await  the  advent  of  her 
daughter. 

It  was  two  o'clock — what  an  hour  to  come,  and  with  Terry 
Dennison,  of  all  men.  What  did  it  mean  ?  How  did  the 
girl  come  to  be  in  Paris  at  all,  and  what  should  she  do  with 
her,  now  that  she  was  here  ?  She  had  not  seen  her  for  ten 
years.  Although  Joan  and  her  husband  had  removed  to 
Scotland — she  had  never  felt  any  desire  to  see  her.  From 
what  Joan  wrote  of  her,  she  was  a  wilful,  headstrong,  pas- 


DONNY.  321 

sionate  creature,  whom  love  alone  could  rule,  upon  whom  dis 
cipline  of  any  kind  was  lost,  reckless  enough  if  thwarted  for 
any  desperate  deed.  And  now  she  was  here.  What  should 
she  do  with  her  ?  If  the  truth  reached  the  ears  of  Di  Ventur- 
ini !  No,  it  must  not — at  any  hazard  it  must  not.  She  must 
win  the  girl  over  by  kindness,  by  pretence  of  affection,  and, 
when  opportunity  offered,  get  rid  of  her  quietly  and  forever. 

And  then  the  door  opened,  and  Pauline  ushered  her  in. 
For  an  instant  there  was  silence  while  mother  and  daughter 
looked  at  each  other  full.  A  very  striking  contrast  they 
made — the  mother  in  her  mature  and  well  preserved  beauty, 
her  loose  robe  of  violet  silk,  her  feet  in  violet  velvet  slippers, 
elevated  on  a  hassock,  lying  indolently  back  in  her  chair,  the 
lamplight  streaming  across  her  rich  dark  beauty.  The 
daughter  draggled  and  wet,  her  black  hair  disordered,  hei 
pale,  pinched  face  bluish  white,  her  great  dusk  eyes  half  shy, 
half  defiant. 

"  Come  here,  child,"  said  the  soft  silky  tones  of  Felicia. 

The  girl  advanced,  still  with  that  half-shy,  Half-defiant  air 
and  attitude,  ready  to  be  humble  or  fierce  at  a  moment's 
notice.  Madame  stretched  forth  her  hand,  drew  her  to  her, 
and  kissed  her  cold,  thin  cheek. 

"You  are  Gordon  Kennedy?" 

"  And  you  are  my  mother  !  " 

She  made  the  answer  with  a  certain  defiance  still— pre 
pared  to  fight  for  her  rights  to  the  death. 

"  Hush-h-h  ! "  madame  said,  with  a  smile  ;  "that  is  your 
secret  and  mine.  No  one  knows  it  here — no  one  must 
know  it  as  yet.  My  marriage  was  a  secret  in  the  past,  is  for 
gotten  in  the  present.  I  was  divorced  long  ago.  But  you 
know  all  that." 

"  Of  course  I  kno\v  ;  Joan  told  me  everything.  Look 
here." 

She  pushed  up  her  sleeve,  and  showed  on  the  upper  part 
of  her  arm  the  initials  "  G.  C."  in  India  ink. 

"  You  did  that,  Joan  said,"  went  on  the  girl  still  defiantly. 
"  She  told  me  to  show  it  to  you,  and  remind  you  of  the  day 
you  sent  her  away  and  did  it  yourself." 

"I  remember  very  well,"  Felicia  said,  still  smiling,  still 
14* 


322  DONNY. 

holding  the  girl's  cold  hand.  "  My  child,  how  chill  you  are, 
how  wet.  Here,  sit  down  on  this  hassock  and  tell  me  how 
in  the  world  you  come  to  be  in  Paris  at  this  unearthly  hour, 
and  in  charge  of  Mr.  Dennison." 

Gordon  Kennedy  obeyed.  The  defiance  was  gradually 
melting  out  of  her  face,  but  there  was  a  visible  constraint 
there  still.  With  straightforward  precision  she  narrated  hei 
adventure  of  the  night. 

"I  ran  away  from  Glasgow,"  she  said,  boldly.  "Joan 
died,  and  I  hated  him.  He  was  a  brute,  and  he  tried  to 
beat  me.  I  threw  a  plate  at  his  head  and  cut  one  cheek 
open.  It  was  a  horrid  gash,"  said  this  young  virago,  with  a 
shudder ;  "  but  I  didn't  care  ;  he  was  a  brute  ;  I  had  to  run 
then,  and  I  came  here.  I  had  some  money ;  Joan  gave  it 
to  me ;  I  have  some  yet,  and  might  have  taken  a  cab  when 
I  got  to  Paris  as  well  as  not,  and  gone  to  your  theatre,  but 
the  streets  were  so  bright  and  dazzling,  the  shops  so  splendid, 
I  thought  I  would  walk.  I  was  a  fool  for  my  pains.  I 
don't  know  what  would  have  happened,  only  Mr.  Dennison 
came.  Ah,  I  like  him — he  was  awfully  good." 

"  But  surely,  surely,  child,  you  did  not  tell  him  who  you 
were  ?  "  madame  cried  in  horror,  as  she  listened  to  this  out 
spoken  confession. 

"  I  told  him  nothing,"  Gordon  answered,  proudly,  "  only 
my  name,  and  where  I  came  from,  and  how  I  got  lost,  and 
that  I  wanted  to  find  you.  He  said  he  knew  you,  and  would 
take  me  to  you,  and  here  I  am." 

"  It  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing  I  ever  heard  of," 
madame  said,  bewildered;  "and you  are  the  most  extraordi 
nary  child.  Surely  there  is  a  Providence  that  watches  over 
children  and  fools." 

"  I  am  no  child,  and  I  am  no  fool.  I'll  thank  you  not  to 
call  me  either,"  cried  little  spitfire,  blazing  up. 

"  No,  no,  certainly  not.  Why,  child,  will  you  be  angry 
with  me,  your  own  mother?"  madame  said,  in  her  sugarest 
tone. 

"You  don't  look  very  glad  to  see  me,  if  you  are  my 
mother,"  retorts  Miss  Kennedy,  sulkily. 

"You  have  surorised  me  so  much,  don't  you  see,  and  I 


DONNY.  323 

don't  want  it  known  that  you  are  my  daughter.  It  would  be 
a  very  bad  thing  for  me,  and  create  no  end  of  talk." 

"  You  are  ashamed  of  me,  I  suppose  ? "  the  young  girl 
cried.  "  I  knew  you  would  be.  You  are  a  fine  lady,  and  I 
am— yes,  look  at  me.  I  am  a  miserable,  draggle-tailed  ob 
ject,  am  I  not  ?  " 

"What  a  temper  you  have,"  madame  said,  still  smiling, 
still  holding  her  hands.  "  Don't  speak  so  loudly.  I  am  not 
in  the  least  ashamed  of  you.  Properly  dressed  you  will  be 
quite  like  me." 

The  black  eyes  lit. 

"  Do  you  think  so,"  eagerly  ;  "  Joan  always  said  I  was  like 
you,  but  you  are  so  beautiful,  and  I  am  so  thin,  and  black, 
and  pale.  You  will  let  me  stay  with  you,  then,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly — that  is  for  the  present.  I  think  I  shall  send 
you  to  school.  You  would  like  to  go  to  school,  would  you 
not,  Gordon.  By  the  bye,  I  would  rather  not  call  you  that." 

"Joan  called  me  Donny." 

"  Donny  be  it,  then.  I  will  dress  you  properly  and  send 
you  to  school,  and  you  are  not  to  say  a  word — no,  not  a 
whisper — about  our  relationship.  You  can  keep  a  secret.  I 
think,  by  your  face." 

"Try  me,"  the  girl  said,  proudly.  "  I'd  die  before  I'd  tell, 
if  I  promised  not." 

"  And  you  do  promise.  It  would  never  do  for  me,  Donny, 
at  least  not  just  yet,  to  acknowledge  you.  People  here  do 
not  know  I  ever  was  married." 

"If  you  wish  it — yes,  I  promise,"  the  girl  said,  a  wistful 
light  in  the  great  eyes. 

"  Tiien  for  the  present  you  shall  remain  here — for  a  few 
days,  that  is.  You  shall  sleep  in  my  dressing-room,  and  I 
will  tell  my  maid  and  the  rest  that  you  are  my  cousin — yes, 
a  cousin  from  Scotland.  And  now,  as  it  is  late,  and  have 
been  travelling  and  are  tired,  I  will  see  you  safely  in  bed 
myself." 

"  And  may  I  see  him  again — the  gentleman  who  was  so 
kind  to  me?"  the  girl  asked,  only  half  satisfied  after  all. 

"  Mr.  Dennison  ?  Oh,  well — yes — I  suppose  so.  Tell 
him  you  are  a  cousin,  and  I  will  indorse  your  story." 


324  DONNY. 

"  I  hate  telling  lies,"  Donny  muttered,  rather  sullenly  ;  but 
madame  prudently  took  no  notice.  In  her  own  mirul  she 
had  resolved  that  long  before  Prince  Di  Venturini's  return  to 
Paris,  this  obnoxious  daughter  should  be  safely  out  of  sight 
for  good  and  all. 

With  her  own  hand  she  led  her  to  the  dressing-room, 
helped  her  to  arrange  the  little  lace-draped  bed  there,  and  saw 
her  safely  in  it  before  retiring  to  her  own  room. 

It  had  been  a  very  unexpected  and  rather  disagreeable 
ending  to  a  pleasant  evening.  Contretemps  will  occur,  and 
must  be  made  the  best  of.  Madame  had  reached  that  age 
when  we  learn  the  folly  of  disturbing  ourselves  for  trifles.  A 
composing  draught  of  wine  and  spices  stood  on  the  table. 
She  rang  for  her  maid,  and  dismissed  her,  drark  her  sleeping 
potion,  and  went  calmly  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT    LOVE'S   YOUNG   DREAM    SOMETIMES    COMES   TO. 

[T  is  twelve  o'clock,  more  or  less,  by  all  the  clocks 
and  watches  of  Paris — high  noon  by  the  broad 
brightness  which,  is  pouring  a  flood  of  golden 
light  through  the  blue  silk  curtains,  over  the  glass, 
and  silver,  and  china  of  a  dainty  breakfast-table  set  for  two, 
over  two  blonde  English  heads — Lord  and  Lady  Dynety. 

They  are  breakfasting  ttte-a-tete,  and  in  profound  silence. 
His  lordship  hides  a  very  sulky,  dissatisfied  and  conscious 
face,  behind  that  day's  Moniteur.  Her  ladyship,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  big  shining  urn,  droops  over  her  teacup, 
pale  as  the  dainty  cashmere  robe  she  wears,  with  blue  eyes 
that  look  jaded  and  dull  from  want  of  sleep.  She  has  not 
slept  all  night,  and  it  tells  upon  her  not  used  to  "  tears 
o'  night  instead  of  slumber."  In  the  garish  morning  sun 
shine,  the  pretty  little  face  looks  wofully  wan  and  pite 
ous,  poor  child,  and  he  sees  it ;  how  can  he  fail  to  see  it, 
and  is  in  a  fine  rage  with  her  and  with  himself  in  consequence. 
No  words  have  passed  between  them  concerning  last  night 
— no  words  as  yet.  That  pleasant  conjugal  debate  is  still  to 
come.  He  ha<l  found  her  feigning  sleep,  the  tears  undried 
upon  her  cheeks,  so  peachily  plump  only  five  weeks  ago 
— then  like  the  heart  of  a  blush  rose — now  paler  than  the 
palest  lily.  This  morning  only  monosyllables  have  been  ex 
changed,  but  the  tug  of  war  is  to  come,  and  although  he 
dreads  it  horribly — as  he  dreads  and  hates  all  things  unpleas 
ant  to  his  own  super-fastidious  selfishness — his  lordship 
throws  down  the  paper  at  last  and  begins. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  says,  in  a  voice  he  tries  not  to  render 
harsh,  but  which  is.  "  I  suppose  you  know  Dennison  came 
last  night  ?  Confounded  meddling  prig  !  I  suppose  you 


326      WHAT  LOVE'S   YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO. 

know,  or  will  know,  he  followed  me,  and  tried  to  play  par 
son  for  my  benefit.  I  wonder  now  1  did  not  knock  him 
down  for  his  impertinence — I  will,  by  Jove,  if  he  tries  it  again. 
I  hope,  Crystal,  you  did  not  send  him  ?  " 

She  shrinks  and  shivers  away  at  his  tone — at  his  words. 
He  sees  it,  and  the  sting  of  remorse  that  follows  and  tells 
him  he  is  a  brute,  hardly  tends  to  add  to  his  good-humor. 

Did  you  send  him  ?  "  he  angrily  repeats. 

She  lifts  her  eyes  for  an  instant  to  his  irritated  face,  then 
drops  them,  shrinking  into  herself  more  and  more. 

"  1  sent  no  one,"  she  answers,  in  a  voice  so  low  as  to  be 
hardly  audible. 

"  Oh,"  Eric  says,  in  a  grumbling  tone.  "  You  saw  him 
though.  He  was  here  ?  " 

"  He  was  here — yes." 

"  How  did  he  know  so  well  where  to  find  me  then  ?  I 
told  you  I  was  going  to  dine  with  some  fellows  at  the  Cafe 
de  Paris." 

"  Yes,  you  told  me,"  she  repeats,  in  the  same  faint  voice. 
Then  she  looks  suddenly  up  at  him  and  her  blue  eyes  flash. 
"  We  went  to  the  theatre,  Eric,"  she  says,  boldly. 

"  To  the — ,"  so  astounded  is  Lord  Dynely  that  the  last 
word  fails  on  his  lips. 

"  To  the  theatre — yes,"  Crystal  goes  on  quickly  and  gasp 
ingly.  "  I  wanted  to  go — it  wasn't  his  fault,  poor  fellow — I 
asked  him  to  take  me — I  made  him  take  me." 

"  And  may  I  ask,"  says  his  lordship,  with  labored  polite 
ness,  and  turning  quite  white  with  anger,  "  which  theatre  you 
honored  with  your  preference  ?  Les  Italiens,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"We  went  to  the  Varieties.  We  saw  that  woman.  We 
sawjtfz/,"  she  answers  in  the  same  gasping  tone. 

His  lips  set  themselves  with  slow,  intense  anger — his  blue 
eyes  gleam  with  a  dangerous  light. 

"  You  saw  that  woman  !  Be  more  explicit,  if  you  please, 
Lady  Dynely.  You  saw  what  woman  ?  " 

"That  actress.  That  wicked,  painted,  dancing  woman. 
And  we  saw  you.  You  threw  her  the  flowers  I  gave  you. 
She  wore  them  in  her  hair.  And  then  you  were  in  the  box 
with  her — as  if — as  if — " 


WHAT  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO.      327 

But  Crystal  can  say  no  more.  At  the  recollection  of 
his  looks  as  he  bent  over  that  woman,  she  breaks  utterly 
down,  covers  her  face  and  bursts  into  passionate  weeping. 

He  is  white  to  the  lips  now — white  with  an  anger  that  has 
something  quite  deadly  in  it.  She  is  his  bride  but  six  weeks, 
and  she  sits  yonder  sobbing  her  heart  out,  but  he  never  soft 
ens  or  relents.  Who  is  to  gauge  for  us  of  the  capabilities  of 
evil  that  are  within  us  ?  All  his  life  Lord  Dynely  had  been 
taken  by  superficial  observers  for  a  kind-hearted  gentleman, 
free  of  hand  and  large  of  heart,  who  would  not  willingly 
injure  a  worm — all  his  life  he  had  taken  himself  to  be  a 
good-natured  fellow — tender-hearted,  indeed,  to  a  fault  ;  and 
now  he  sits  watching  his  wife  with  a  glance  that  is  absolutely 
murderous.  With  it  all  he  is  so  astounded  that  it  is  a  mo 
ment  before  he  can  speak. 

"You  did  this?"  he  says  at  last,  in  a  slow,  cruel,  sup 
pressed  sort  of  voice.  "  You  played  the  spy  upon  me — 
you !  You  gave  your  old  lover  the  cue,  did  you — you 
dragged  him  after  me  to  the  theatre  to  spy  upon  me.  You're 
a  fool,  Crystal;  and,  by  Heaven,  you'll  live  to  repent 
it!" 

She  gave  a  gasping  cry.  He  arose  from  his  seat,  flung 
down  his  paper,  and  stood  before  her,  white  with  rage. 

"  It  is  a  thousand  pities,"  he  says  with  a  sneer,  that  for  the 
moment  blots  out  all  the  fair  Greek  beauty  of  his  face,  "  that 
I  did  not  let  you  marry  Dennison.  He's  in  love  with  you 
yet — no  doubt  your  old  penchant  too  is  as  strong  as  ever. 
//  was  not  his  fault ',  poor  fellow.  May  I  ask  where  you  and 
Mr.  Dennison  are  going  together  to-night?" 

She  looks  up  at  him — her  eyes  all  wide  and  wild,  with  a 
bewildered  sort  of  horror.  Eric  has  insulted  her — insulted 
her.  She  tries  to  speak,  but  only  a  gasping  sound  comes. 
Something  in  her  eyes — in  her  face  frightens  even  him,  in 
his  blind  tury,  into  remorse  and  relenting. 

"Don't  look  like  that,"  he  says  with  a  strident  sort  of 
laugh.  "  I  didn't  quite  mean  what  I  said  ;  but  when  a  man 
finds  his  wife  running  about  to  theatres  in  his  absence,  with 
her  old  lover — Well,  sir  !  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

For  a  servant  has  entered  with  a  card  upon  a  salver,  and 


328      WHAT  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO. 

presents  it  with  a  bow.  Lord  Dynely  takes  it  up  and  utters 
an  exclamation. 

"  Miss  France  Forrester!"  he  exclaims.  "  The  plot 
thickens.  They're  here,  too,  are  they  ?  Where  is  the 
lady  ?  "  he  demands  of  the  man. 

"  In  the  salon,  my  lord." 

"  Very  well,  tell  her  we  will  be  there  in  a  moment."  The 
man  salaams  and  departs.  "  Go  to  your  room,  Crystal,"  he 
says,  less  harshly  ;  "  and,  for  Heaven's  sake  try  and  get  rid 
of  that  face.  You  look  like  a  galvanized  corpse.  You  will 
have  them  thinking  here  I  adopt  the  good  old  British  custom  of 
beating  my  wife.  Put  on  rouge — anything — get  your  maid 
to  do  it,  only  don't  fetch  that  woe-begone  countenance  to 
France  Forrester's  sharp  eyes." 

With  this  pleasant  and  bridegroom  like  adjuration  he 
leaves  her  and  goes  to  the  salon  to  receive  their  guest.  He 
is  humming  a  popular  Parisian  street  song  as  he  goes,  a  half 
smile  on  his  lips,  all  his  old  sunny  debonnaire  self  once  more  : 

"  Ma  mere  est  a  Paris. 
Mon  pore  est  a  Versailles, 
Et  moi  je  suis  ici, 
Pour  chanter  sur  la  paille — " 

he  sings  as  he  enters.  France  sits  in  a  great  ruby  velvet 
chair,  charmingly  dressed,  looking  fresher,  fairer,  more 
brightly,  saucily  handsome,  Eric  thinks,  than  he  has  ever 
seen  her.  "How  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their 
flight."  What  did  he  see  in  his  faded,  passee,  pallid  little 
wife,  to  prefer  her  to  this  brilliant,  dark  beauty  ?  For  my 
lord's  taste  has  changed,  and  "  black  beauties"  are  decidedly 
in  the  ascendant  again. 

"  My  dear  France,"  he  says,  holding  both  her  hands,  "  this 
is  an  astounder.  We  knew  you  were  coming,  but  not  so 
soon.  When  did  you  arrive,  and  where  are  you  located  ?  " 

"We  arrived  late  last  night,  and  have  apartments  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Honore,  near  the  British  Embassy..  And 
with  my  usual  impetuosity,  and  my  usual  disregard  of  les  con- 
)  I  ran  the  risk  of  finding  you  still  asleep,  and  rushed 


WHAT  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO.      329 

away  immediately  after  breakfast.  You  are  up,  I  see,  for 
which,  oh,  be  thankful.  And  now  where  is  Crystal  ?  " 

"  Crystal  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  How  well  you  are 
looking,  France,"  he  says,  half-regretfully  ;  "  being  in  love 
must  be  a  great  beautifier — better  than  all  Madame  Rachel's 
cosmetics." 

"Must  be  !"  she  laughs;  "you  don't  know  from  experi 
ence  then  ?  I  can  return  the  compliment — you  are  looking 
as  if  life  went  well  with  you — 

"  His  'and  was  free,  his  means  was  easy, 

A  finer,  nobler  gent  than  he, 
Ne'er  rode  along  the  shons  Eleesy, 
Or  paced  the  Roo  de  Rivolee  !  " 

quotes  France,  after  her  old  fashion  ;  "but  then,  of  course, 
we  are  in  the  height  of  our  honeymoon,  and  see  all  things 
through  spectacles  couleur  de  rose" 

Eric  laughs,  but  rather  grimly.  He  is  thinking  of  the 
honeymoon-like  ttte-a-ttte  her  coming  ended. 

"  And  how  are  they  all  ?  "  he  inquires — "  the  Madre  and 
Mrs.  Caryll  ?  Mrs.  Caryll  is  here,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Grandmamma  is  here — yes.  And  better  than  you  ever 
saw  her.  And  your  mother  is  well  and  dying  to  see  you, 
and  how  matrimony  agrees  with  you.  Do  you  know,  Eric," 
laughing,  "  I  can't  fancy  you  in  the  role  of  Benedick  the 
married  man." 

He  laughs  too,  but  it  is  not  a  very  mirthful  laugh. 

"  Caryll  is  with  you  ?  "  he  says,  keeping  wide  of  his  own 
conjugal  bliss  ;  "  Of  course  he  is,  though— lucky  fellow  !  I 
needn't  ask  if  he  is  well?" 

"  You  need  not,  indeed,"  France  says,  and  into  her  face  a 
lovely  rose  light  comes  ;  "  but  you  will  soon  see  for  yourself 
— they  will  all  call  later.  What  does  keep  Crystal — I  hope 
she  is  not  so  silly  as  to  stay  and  make  an  elaborate  toilet 
for  me  ?  " 

"  No,  no — she  will  be  down  in  a  moment.  She  has  a 
headache — is  rather  seedy  this  morning — late  hours  and  dis 
sipation  will  tell  on  rustic  beauty,  you  know.  By  the  bye, 
apropos  of  nothing,  do  you  know  Terry  Dennison  is  here— 


330      WHAT  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO. 

at  this  hotel?  We  are  quite  a  family  party,  you  see,"  lie 
laughs  again  rather  grimly. 

"  Terry  here  !  deir  old  Terry !  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see 
him.  When  did  he  get  over  ?  " 

"Last  night  also.  It  appears  to  have  been  a  night  of 
arrivals.  Ah,  here  is  Crystal  now." 

He  looks  rather  anxiously  as  he  says  it.  He  knows  of  old 
how  keen  Miss  Forrester's  hazel  eyes  are — he  feels  that  she 
has  already  perceived  something  to  be  wrong.  That  she  has 
heard  nothing  he  is  quite  sure.  Her  manner  would  certainly 
not  be  so  frankly  natural  and  cordial  if  one  whisper  of  the 
truth  had  reached  her. 

Crystal  has  done  her  best.  She  has  exchanged  her  white 
wrapper  for  a  pink  one  that  lends  a  faint,  fictitious  glow  to 
her  face.  The  suggestion  about  rouge  she  has  not  adopted 
— rouge,  Crystal  looks  upon  as  a  device  of  the  evil  one. 
Something  almost  akin  to  gladness  lights  her  sad  eyes  as  she 
comes  forward  and  into  France's  wide,  open  arms. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Dynely  !  My  dear  little  Crystal  !  "  and 
then  France  stops  and  sends  her  quick  glance  from  her  face 
to  Eric's,  and  reads  trouble  without  a  second  look.  She  is 
honestly  shocked,  and  takes  no  pains  to  hide  it. 

Eric  winces.  Has  Crystal  so  greatly  changed  then  for  the 
worse  ?  All  his  selfish,  unreasoning  anger  stirs  again  within 
him. 

"You  have  been  ill?"  she  says,  blankly.  "You — you 
look  wretchedly." 

"  I  told  you  she  had  a  headache,"  Eric  interrupts,  irritably. 
"  I  told  you  late  hours  and  Paris  dissipation  will  tell  upon 
rustic  beauty.  There  is  nothing  the  matter.  Open  your 
lips,  oh,  silent  Crystal !  and  reassure  Miss  Forrester." 

"  I  am  quite  well,  thank  you,"  Crystal  says,  but  no  effort 
can  make  the  words  other  than  faint  and  mournful.  Then 
she  sits  down  with  her  face  from  the  light,  and  leans  back  in 
her  great  carved  and  gilded  chair,  looking  so  small,  and  fra 
gile,  and  childish,  and  colorless  that  a  great  compassion  for 
her,  and  a  great,  vague  wrath  against  him,  tills  France's  heart. 
She  does  not  know  what  he  has  done,  but  she  knows  he  has 
done  something,  and  is  wroth  accordingly.  Why,  the  child 


WHAT  LOVE'S   YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO. 


331 


has  gone  to  a  shadow — looks  utterly  crushed  and  heart 
broken.  Is  he  tired  of  her  already  ? — is  he — but  no,  that  is 
too  bad  to  think  even  of  fickle  Eric — he  cannot  be  neglect 
ing  her  for  a  rival. 

Her  cordial  manner  changes  at  once — a  constraint  has 
fallen  upon  them.  All  Eric's  attempts  at  badinage,  at  society 
small  talk,  fall  flat.  He  rises  at  last,  looks  at  his  watch, 
pleads  an  engagement,  and  prepares  to  go. 

"  I  know  you  and  Crystal  are  dying  to  compare  notes," 
he  says,  gayly,  "and  that  I  am  in  the  way.  Only  Crystal's 
notes  will  be  brief,  I  warn  you,  France ;  she  has  not  your 
gift  of  tongue.  Lady  Dynely  is  the  living  exemplification  of 
the  adage  that  speech  is  silver,  and  silence  is  gold." 

"Shall  you  be  in  when  your  mother  and  Gordon  call, 
Eric?"  France  asks,  rather  coldly.  "If  not,  I  am  commis 
sioned  to  tender  an  impromptu  invitation  to  dine  with  Mrs. 
Caryll." 

"  Awfully  sorry,"  Eric  answers,  "  but  we  stand  pledged  to 
dine  at  the  Embassy,  /must  put  in  an  appearance,  whether 
or  no,  and  Crystal  will  also — headache  permitting.  Crystal 
rather  shrinks  from  heavy  dinner  parties  and  goes  nowhere." 

"I  thought  late  hours  and  Paris  dissipation  were  telling 
on  her,"  retorts  France,  still  coldly.  And  Eric  laughs  and 
goes,  with  a  last  severe,  warning  glance  at  his  wife — a  glance 
which  says  in  its  quick  blue  flash  : 

"Tell  if  you  dare  !  " 

It  is  a  needless  warning — Crystal  has  no  thought  of  telling 
— of  complaining  of  him  to  any  one  on  earth.  She  lies  back 
in  her  big  chair,  her  little  hands  folded,  silent  and  pale,  while 
the  sounds  of  ringing  life  reach  them  from  the  bright,  gay 
boulevard  below,  and  the  jubilant  sunlight  fills  the  room. 

"  How  thin  you  have  grown,  Crystal,"  France  says  at  last, 
very  gently.  "  Paris  does  not  agree  with  you  I  think.  We 
must  make  Eric  take  you  home  to  Dynely." 

Her  eyes  light  eagerly — something  like  color  comes  into 
the  colorless  face.  She  catches  her  breath  hard. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  says,  "  if  he  only  would  !  " 

France  is  watching  her  intently. 

"You  don't  like  Paris,  then?" 


332      WHAT  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO. 

"  Like  it ! "  the  gentle  eyes  for  an  instant  flash.  "  I  hate 
it." 

There  is  a  pause.  France's  heart  is  hot  within  her. 
Fickle,  unstable,  she  had  always  known  Eric  to  be ;  selfish 
to  the  core  and  cruel  in  his  selfishness ;  but  an  absolute 
brute,  never  before. 

"  Do  you  go  out  much  ?"  she  asks. 

"  No — yes."  Crystal  falters.  She  hardly  knows  which 
answer  to  make  in  her  fear  of  committing  Eric.  "  I  don't 
care  to  go  out — dinner  parties  are  a  bore — I  never  was  used 
to  much  society,  you  know,  at  home." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  be  very  lonely." 

"  Oh,  no  !  that  is — not  very.  I  read  and  play — a  little — 
and  then,  Eric — " 

But  her  voice  breaks,  it  is  not  trained  to  the  telling  of 
falsehoods,  and  the  truth  she  cannot  tell. 

"  Yes,"  France  says  quietly,  "  Eric  is  out  a  great  deal 
naturally — he  is  not  a  domestic  man  ;  but  once  you  return 
to  Dynely  all  that  will  be  changed.  We  must  try  and  pre 
vail  upon  him  to  take  you  home  at  once. 

The  sad  blue  eyes  give  her  a  grateful  glance.  Then  a 
troubled,  frightened  look  comes  into  them. 

"  Perhaps — perhaps  you  had  better  not,"  she  says  ;  "  he 
will  think  you  are  dictating  to  him,  and  he  cannot  bear  to  be 
dictated  to.  He  likes  Paris — I  am  sure  he  will  be  angry  if 
he  is  urged  to  go." 

"  We  can  survive  that  calamity,"  Miss  Forrester  answers, 
cynically  ;  "  and  your  health — and,  yes,  I  will  say  it — happi 
ness,  are  the  things  to  be  considered  first." 

"  But  I  am  happy,"  cries  Crystal,  in  still  increasing  alarm, 
"indeed  I  am.  How  could  I  be  otherwise  so  soon  ?  " 

Her  traitor  voice  breaks  again.  France  looks  at  her  in 
unutterable  compassion. 

"  Ah,  how  indeed  !  "  she  answers,  "  you  poor  little  pale 
child  !  Well,  I  must  go — they  really  don't  know  where  I 
am,  and  we  are  all  to  go  sight-seeing  to  the  Luxembourg. 
Do  come  with  us,  Crystal ;  you  look  as  though  you  needed 
it." 

But  Lady  Dynely  shakes  her  small,  fair  head. 


WHA T  LOVE'S  YO UNG  DREAM  COMES  TO.      333 

"  I  cannot,"  she  says.  "  Eric  may  return,  and  be  vexed 
to  find  me  out." 

"  Eric  !  Eric  !  "  thinks  France,  intolerantly  ;  "  I  should 
like  to  box  Eric's  ears  !" 

"  Besides,  sight-seeing  tires  me,"  Crystal  goes  on,  with  a 
wan  little  smile,  "and  I  don't  think  I  care  for  pictures. 
We  visited  the  Luxembong,  and  the  Louvre,  and  the  Tuile- 
ries,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  show  places,  when  we  first  came, 
and  I  remember  I  was  ill  all  day  with  headache  after  them. 
I  like  best  to  stay  at  home  and  read — indeed  I  do." 

France  sighs. 

"  My  little  Crystal !     But  you  will  be  lonely." 

"  Oh,  no.  Eric  may  come  to  luncheon — he  often  does — 
and  Terry  will  drop  in,  I  dare  say,  by  and  by.  You  know 
Terry  is  here?"  interrogatively. 

"  Yes ;  Eric  told  me.  I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  me 
all  the  same,  little  one.  I  hate  to  leave  you  here  in  this 
hotel  alone.  It  is  a  sharne  ! — a  shame  !  "  says  France,  in 
her  hot  indignation. 

But  Crystal  lifts  a  pained,  piteous  face. 

"Please  don't  speak  like  that,  France.  It  is  all  right," 
she  says,  with  a  little  gasp ;  "  I — I  prefer  it." 

"  Do  come  !  "  France  persists,  unheedingly.  "  We  will 
leave  you  at  home  with  grandmamma  Caryll,  while  we  do  the 
sight-seeing.  You  will  love  her,  Crystal — she  is  the  dearest, 
best  old  lady  in  Europe.  Then  we  will  dine  comfortably  to 
gether,  enfamille,  and  go  to  the  Varieties  in  the  evening,  to 
see  this  popular  actress  Paris  raves  about — Madame  Felicia." 

But,  to  France's  surprise,  Crystal  suddenly  withdraws  her 
hands  and  looks  up  at  her  with  eyes  that  absolutely  flash. 

"  I  will  never  go  to  the  Varieties  ! "  she  cries ;  "I  will 
never  go  to  see  Madame  Felicia  !  She  is  a  wicked,  wicked 
woman,  and  I  hate  her  ! " 

She  is  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  nervous  passion  as 
she  says  it.  France  stands  petrified.  Then  all  in  an  in 
stant  Crystal  recollects  herself,  and  piteously  clasps  her 
hands. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that ! "  she  cries ;  "  it  is  very 
wrong  of  me.  Please  don't  think  anything  of  my  angry 


334      WHAT  LOVE* 'S  YOUNG  DREAM  COMES  TO. 

words — I  did  not  mean  anything  by  them — indeed  I  did 
not." 

France  stoops  and  kisses  her  as  a  sister  might,  holding 
her  close  for  a  moment ;  and  a  little  sob  she  cannot  wholly 
repress  breaks  from  the  poor,  jealous  child,  as  she  lays  her 
head  on  France's  breast. 

"  My  darling,"  France  whispers,  in  that  warm  kiss,  "  keep 
up  heart.  Eric  shall  take  you  out  of  this  wicked,  tiresome' 
Paris  before  the  week  ends,  or  I  will  know  the  reason  why." 

Then,  with  profoundest  pity  for  this  poor  little  girl  bride, 
she  goes,  her  own  day's  pleasuring  totally  spoiled. 

"This  is  what  Eric's  love-match  comes  to,"  she  think 
sadly.  "  Ah,  poor  little  Crystal ! 

"  '  I  have  lived  and  loved — but  that  was  to-day  ; 
Go  bring  me  my  grave-clothes  to-morrow.'  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AT  THE    VARIETIES. 


T  is  jlose  upon  luncheon  hour  when  Miss  Forrester 
returns  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  As  she  enters 
the  drawing-room,  still  in  her  street  dress,  she  sees 
her  lover  sitting  in  an  arm  chair  by  the  open  win 
dow,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  immersed  in  the  art  criticisms  of 
the  Revue  dfs  Deux  Mondes.  He  throws  down  the  paper 
and  looks  at  her  with  lazily  loving  eyes.  Happiness  and 
prosperity  certainly  agree  with  ///';// — as  Gordon  Caryll,  the 
accepted  suitor  of  Miss  Forrester,  he  looks  ten  years  younger 
than  did  Mr.  Locksley,  the  impecunious  portrait  painter. 
Handsomer,  nobler,  France  thinks,  than  Mr.  Locksley,  it  is 
impossible  for  mortal  man  to  grow. 

"  Well,"  he  says,  "you  have  returned.  My  thoughts  were 
just  turning  seriously  to  the  idea  of  having  out  the  detective 
police,  and  offering  a  reward  for  your  recovery.  Is  it  admis 
sible  to  ask,  my  child,  where  you  have  been  ?  " 

She  comes  behind  him,  lays  her  little  gloved  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  looks  down  into  the  gravely  smiling  face  rest 
ing  against  the  chair  back.  They  are  not  demonstrative 
lovers  those  two,  but  now,  rather  to  Mr.  CarylPs  surprise, 
Miss  Forrester  impulsively  stoops  and  leaves  a  kiss  on  his 
forehead. 

"  And  to  think,"  she  says,  drawing  a  tense  sort  of  breath, 
"  that  I  might  have  married  him  ! " 

Mr.  Caryll  opens  his  handsome  gray  eyes.  Both  the  kiss 
and  the  irrelevant  exclamation  take  him  rather  aback. 

"  You  might  have  married  him  !  You  might  have  mar 
ried  whom  ?  You  have  not  been  proposing  to  any  one 
this  morning,  have  you  ?  What  are  you  talking  about 
France?" 

"About  Eric,"  she  answers,  absently. 


336  AT  THE    VARIETIES. 

"And  with  the  most  woe-begone  effaces.  Melancholy 
has  evidently  marked  you  for  her  own  this  morning.  You 
are  regretting  you  threw  Eric  over  for  me — is  thaj;  it,  my 
dear?" 

"  Nonsense  !  "  is  France's  energetic  answer.  "  I  hate  to 
have  you  say  such  things,  even  in  jest,  Gordon.  Thank 
Heaven,  no  !  I  liked  Eric,  certainly — one  could  hardly  fail 
to  do  that ;  but,  I  always  had  a  most  thorough-paced  con 
tempt  for  him  all  the  same.  And  if  I  had  married  him — 
but  no,  I  never  would,  I  never  could,  if  there  had  been  no 
Crystal  Higgins,  no  Mr.  Locksley,  in  the  scheme  of  the  uni 
verse.  Gordon,  I  have  been  to  see  them  this  morning." 

"  So  I  inferred,  my  dear,  from  your  very  energetic  language. 
And  you  found  them  well,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Eric  is  well,"  France  says,  resentfully ;  "  he  will  be,  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter.  But,  Crystal — " 

"Yes?"  Mr.  Caryll  says,  interrogatively.  "Crystal  is 
well  also,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  Well ! "  France  cries,  and  then  stops.  "  Ah  !  you 
should  see  her — wait  until  you  do.  I  never  saw  any  one  so 
changed  in  my  life." 

"  For  the  better  ?  " 

"  For  the  worse.  She  is  the  shadow  of  herself — poor  little 
soul !  Her  sad,  heart-broken  face  and  voice  haunt  me  like 
a  ghost.  Eric  is  a  brute  ! " 

"  Indeed  !  Husbands  invariably  are,  are  they  not  ?  What 
has  Eric  done?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  has  done,"  Miss  Forrester  answers, 
indignantly.  "  I  only  know  he  is  breaking  his  wife's  heart. 
Why  don't  you  say  « husbands  invariably  do'  ?  I  daresay  it  is 
true  enough." 

Mr.  Caryll  takes  one  of  the  gloved  hands  and  gives  it  an 
affectionate  little  squeeze. 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  excite  yourself.  I  intend  to  prove 
an  exception.  Seriously,  though,  I  am  very  sorry  for  little 
Lady  Dynely.  I  am  afraid  the  rumors  I  have  been  hearing 
must  be  true." 

"  Rumors  ?  What  rumors?  I  never  heard  you  allude  to 
them." 


AT  THE    VARIETIES.  337 

"  No  ;  one  does  not  care  to  talk  about  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  I  knew  it  would  annoy  you,  and  make  his  mother  un 
happy.  But  as  you  seem  to  be  finding  out  for  yourself,  well 
they  do  say  he  neglects  the  little  one,  and  runs  about 
with—" 

"With  Felicia,  the  actress!  Gordon,  I  am  sure  of  it! 
With  Felicia,  the  dancer  ! " 

"  With  Felicia,  the  dancer.  But  take  it  calmly,  my  love. 
How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"I  know  it  from  Crystal  herself.  That  is  what  she  meant 
when  I  asked  her  to  come  with  us  to  the  Varieties  to  see 
Felicia." 

"  Ah,  what  did  she  mean  ?  " 

"She  said  she  hated  the  Varieties,  she  hated  Madame 
Felicia ;  that  she  was  a  wicked,  painted  woman.  And  you 
should  have  seen  those  dove-eyes  of  hers  flash.  My  poor, 
dear  little  Crystal !  "  The  dark,  impetuous  eyes  fill  with  tears 
and  fire  with  indignation.  "  Only  six  weeks  married  !  "  she 
says  passionately.  "  Gordon,  I  hate  Eric." 

"Now,  France,"  he  says  gravely,  "don't  make  yourself 
unhappy  about  this.  Lady  Dynely  must  have  known  she  ran 
no  ordinary  risk  in  marrying  Dynely — the  most  notorious 
male  flirt  in  Europe.  If  she  had  had  one  grain  of  sense  in 
that  pretty  flaxen  head  of  hers  she  must  have  known  that 
matrimony  would  work  no  miracles.  A  flirt  he  is  by  nature 
— there  is  not  a  grain  of  constancy  in  his  whole  composi 
tion  ;  and  as  she  has  taken  him,  so  she  must  abide  by  her 
bargain." 

"He  is  a  brute  !" 

"So  you  said  before,"  answers  Mr.  Caryll,  a  half-smile 
breaking  up  the  gravity  of  his  face.  "  Still,  allowance  must 
be  made  for  him.  He  has  been  spoiled  all  his  life — he  has 
never  been  thwarted — to  wish  has  been  to  have,  and  ladies 
have  petted  and  made  much  of  him  for  his  azure  eyes,  and 
golden  curls,  and  his  Greek  profile,  all  his  life  long.  Time 
may  cure  him.  Meanwhile,  neither  you  nor  I,  Miss  Foires- 
ter,  can  help  Crystal.  And  they  say  this  Felicia  plays  the 
deuce  with  her  victims." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  her,  Gordon  ?  " 
15 


338  AT  THE    VARIETIES. 

"  Nevei.  I  was  too  busy  last  year  when  she  was  at  the 
Bijou,  and  besides,  I  had  an  aversion  to  theatres  and  theatre- 
going.  I  shall  see  her  to-night,  however." 

'•She  bought  your  picture,  '  How  the  Night  Fell,'  didn't 
she  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Di  Venturini  purchased  it  for  her.  By  the  bye,  I 
promised  at  the  time  a  companion  picture.  They  say  die's 
to  marry  Di  Venturini  immediately  upon  his  return  from 
Italy." 

"  Marry  him  !     That  woman  ! " 

"My  dear  France,"  Caryl  I  says,  laughing,  "with  what 
stinging  scorn  you  bring  out  that  woman  !  There  is  nothing 
said  against  '  that  woman  '  except  that  she  is  a  most  outrage 
ous  coquette." 

"  But  she  is  a  dancer,  and  he  is  a  prince." 

"  That  goes  for  nothing.  The  best  blood  of  the  realm 
takes  its  wife  from  the  stage  in  these  days.  I  shouldn't 
fancy  it  myself,  but  you  know  the  adage,  '  A  burnt  child 
dreads  the  fire.'  " 

"  Poor  little  Crystal !  "  sighs  France. 

"  Poor  little  Crystal,  indeed.  Rumor  says  he  is  altogether 
infatuated.  Let  us  hope  rumor,  for  once,  is  wrong.  Are 
they  coming  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  No.  Eric  pleads  a  prior  engagement,  and  she  does  not 
seem  to  have  heart  enough  left  to  go  anywhere.  Here  is 
Lady  Dynely.  By  the  bye,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  Terry  is  in 
Paris." 

"Terry?  Terry  Dennison  ?"  cries  Lady  Dynely,  eagerly  ; 
"is  he,  really.  Where,  France  ?  " 

"  At  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  I  stole  a  march  upon  you  this 
morning,  and  made  an  early  call  upon  the  happy  pair." 

Her  ladyship's  eyes  light  eagerly. 

"  And  you  saw  them  ?     You  saw  Eric  ?  " 

"  I  saw  Eric,  mamma." 

"  How  is  he  looking  ?     Will  they  dine  with  us  ?  " 

"  Eric  is  looking  well — never  better.  And  they  dine  at 
the  Embassy  this  evening.  No  doubt,  though,  Eric  will  call." 

"  Here  he  is  now,"  Caryll  interrupts,  looking  from  the 
window,  and  France  disappears  like  a  Hash.  She  feels  in  no 


AT  THE    VARIETIES.  339 

mood  at  present  to  meet  and  exchange  pleasant  common 
places  with  the  Right  Honorable  the  Lord  Viscount  Dynely. 

She  goes  to  her  room,  throws  off  her  bonnet  and  seal 
jacket,  anc1  pays  a  visit  to  grandmamma  Caryll,  in  her  own 
apartments.  Paralysis  has  deprived  her  of  the  use  of  her 
limbs.  She  sits  in  her  great  invalid  chair  the  long  Jays 
through.  But  in  her  handsome  old  face  a  look  of  great, 
serene  content  reigns. 

The  restless,  longing,  impatient  light  that  for  years  looked 
out  of  her  eyes  has  gone — she  has  found  what  she  waited 
and  watched  for.  Her  son  is  with  her — Fiance  is  to  be  his 
wife — she  asks  no  more  of  earth. 

The  luncheon-bell  rings.  Mrs.  Caryll's  is  brought  in,  and 
France  descends.  To  her  great  relief,  Eric  has  gone,  and 
Terry  is  in  his  place.  Terry,  who  is  changed  too,  and  who 
looks  grave  and  preoccupied. 

"  You  were  at  the  Louvre  this  morning,  France,"  he  says 
to  her  as  they  sit  side  by  side.  "  You  saw  her  ?  " 

11  Yes,  Terry,"  and  France's  compassionate  eyes  look  at 
him  very  gently.  "  I  saw  her." 

"  And  you  have  heard " 

"  Everything — poor  little  Crystal.  Terry,  Eric  must  take 
her  to  England,  and  at  once." 

"  Ah,  if  he  only  would,"  Terry  says  with  a  sort  of  groan, 
"  but  he  will  not.  That  is  past  hoping  for.  He  is  killing 
her — as  surely  as  ever  man  killed  woman.  And  when  he 
does,"  Terry  sets  his  teeth  like  a  bulldog,  "  my  time  of  reck 
oning  will  come." 

"  You  must  accompany  us  this  afternoon,  Terry,"  Lady 
Dynely  says,  after  the  old  imperious  fashion.  "  France  is 
quite  as  much  as  Gordon  is  capable  of  taking  care  of.  2 
want  you." 

Terry  falls  into  the  old  groove  at  once.  In  his  secret 
heart  he  is  longing  to  be  at  the  hotel  with  Crystal,  to  cheer 
her  in  her  loneliness ;  but  that  may  not  be,  may  never  be 
again.  So  he  sighs  and  goes.  They  spend  the  long,  sunny, 
spring-like  afternoon  amid  the  lions  of  Paris,  and  return  to 
dine,  and  dress  for  the  theatre. 

"  The  whole  duty  of  family  escort  will  fall  upon  your  vie- 


AT  THE   VARIETIES. 

timized  shoulders,  Dennison,"  says  Mr.  Caryll,  looking  u]t 
from  a  letter  that  the  post  has  brought  him.  "  This  is  a 
note  from  General  McLaren — I  served  under  him  at  the 
beginning  of  the  American  civil  war.  He  is  at  the  Hotel 
Alirabeau  ;  and  as  he  leaves  Paris  to-morrow,  begs  me  to 
call  upon  him  to-night.  You  won't  mind,  I  suppose ;  and 
I  will  look  in  upon  you  about  the  second  act." 

"  I  always  told  Terry  he  was  born  to  be  a  social  martyr," 
France  says.  "  The  fetch-and-carry,  go-and-come,  do  this 
and  that  role,  has  been  yours  from  your  birth,  my  poor, 
boy." 

So  it  chances  that  when  the  curtain  goes  up,  and  the 
"Golden  Witch"  begins,  Gordon  Caryll  does  not  make  one 
of  the  party  of  three  who  look  down  from  the  front  of  their 
box,  amid  all  the  glittering  "  horse-shoe  "  of  gaslight  and  hu 
man  faces.  The  pretty,  bright  theatre  is  very  fall ;  there  is 
an  odor  of  pastilles,  a  flutter  of  fans,  a  sparkle  of  jewelry. 
Felicia  is  in  great  form  to-night — she  has  heard  from  Lord 
Dynely  himself  of  the  family  party  coming  to  view  her  with 
coldly-critical,  British  eyes.  They  have  laughed  together 
over  it  in  her  little  dusk-shaded,  perfumed,  luxurious  draw 
ing-room,  where  his  lordship  has  made  a  much  longer  morn 
ing  call  than  he  made  immediately  before  in  the  Faubourg 
St.  Honore. 

She  glances  up  now,  swiftly  and  eagerly,  as  she  comes 
forward  to  the  footlights,  a  golden  goblet  in  her  hand,  her 
long  hair  floating  loosely  over  her  shoulders,  singing  some 
wild  bacchanalian,  Theresa-like  ditty.  She  is  gloriously 
beautiful  in  her  scant  drapery,  and  her  rich  voice  fills  the 
theatre  superbly.  But  as  she  tosses  off  her  goblet,  at  the  end 
of  her  drinking  song,  she  sees  that  the  man  she  looks  for  is 
not  in  the  box. 

Will  he  know  her  ?  He  has  never  seen  her  since  that 
long,  far-off  night  when  they  parted  in  the  darkening  day  by 
the  shore  of  the  lonely  Canadian  river.  He  thinks  her  dead. 
Will  he  know  her  ?  A  wild,  fierce  delight  fills  her  soul, 
flames  up  in  her  eyes,  and  burns  in  her  cheeks.  Will  he 
know  her  ?  She  will  sing  to-night  (if  he  comes)  the  song 
she  ever  sang  for  him,  that  first  evening  in  the  cottage  of 


AT  THE    VARIETIES.  341 

Major  Lovell.  It  will  run  very  well  with  this  play — that  is 
much  more  song  and  dance  than  drama.  If  he  doubts  her 
identity,  surely,  surely,  he  will  remember  that. 

She  is  wild  with  excitement,  she  surpasses  herself.  The 
audience  applaud  to  the  echo — she  flings  herself  into  her 
part  with  a  reckless  abandon  that  sweeps  her  listeners  along 
with  her.  And  still  she  watches  that  box,  and  still  he 
does  not  come.  Will  he  not  come  at  all?  Amid  a  storm 
of  excited  applause,  amid  a  shower  of  bouquets,  the  curtain 
falls  upon  the  first  act. 

"  How  well  she  plays."  "  How  magnificently  she  is 
looking."  "  Never  saw  her  dance  half  a  quarter  so  well  in 
my  life  before."  "  By  Jove  !  you  know,  what  a  voice 
Felicia  has."  These  and  a  hundred  such  exclamations  run 
the  round  of  the  theatre. 

"  She  is  beautiful !  "  France  exclaims,  "  with  a  beaute  du 
diable  I  never  saw  equalled.  And  she  dances  and  sings  like 
a  very  Bacchante." 

"  Wish  to  Heaven  they  would  burn  her  as  a  witch," 
growls  Terry,  under  his  ruddy  beard.  "  Such  a  woman 
should  no  more  be  let  run  loose  than  a  leopardess." 

"  She  sings  very  well,"  Lady  Dynely  says,  languidly;  "  but 
there  is  something  fierce  and  outre  about  her,  is  there  not  ? 
I  don't  like  this  sort  of  exhibition.  A  ballet  is  bad  enough 
— this  kind  of  thing  is  positively  indelicate.  What  is  she 
looking  at  our  box  for  ?  I  caught  her  more  than  once." 

"  She  is  looking  for  what  she  does  not  see.  There  is  Eric 
yonder  in  the  stalls,"  says  Miss  Forrester,  in  a  tone  of  stony 
resentment. 

"Is  he,  really?"  Eric's  mother  puts  up  her  glass  and 
leans  forward.  "  So  he  is,  and  quite  alone.  Where  is 
Crystal,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Crystal  is  at  home,  and  quite  alone  also,  you  may  be 
very  sure,"  answers  France,  still  in  that  tone  of  strong,  sup 
pressed  indignation. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  sees  us?  Oh,  yes,  he  does.  There  he 
is  rising.  No  doubt  he  will  call  upon  us  directly.  France, 
why  don't  you  look?  He  is  bowing  to  you? 

But  France's  bright,  angry  eyes  are  fixed  steadfastly  upon 


342  AT  THE    VARIETIES. 

the  rising  curtain — she  will  not  see  Lord  Dynely.  And 
Lord  Dynely  looks  away  from  her,  feeling  he  has  been 
snubbed,  and  knowing  very  well  the  reason  why. 

He  has  come  to  the  theatre  to-night,  partly  because  he 
cannot  stay  away,  partly  out  of  sheer  bravado. 

What !  shall  he  stay  away  because  he  is  afraid  of  Terry 
Dennison,  and  France  Forrester  ?  Is  he  still  a  child  ir 
leading-strings,  to  be  dictated  to  ?  Not  if  he  knows  it.  So 
he  leaves  early  the  ambassador's  saloon,  and  goes  to  the 
Varieties,  and  sits  out  all  the  second  act,  directly  under  the 
lorgnettes  of  the  Gordon  Gary  11  party. 

Again  madame  surpasses  herself — again  the  whole  house 
rings  with  applause — again  bouquets  are  showered  upon  her. 
Lord  Dynely  adds  his  mite  to  the  rest,  a  bouquet  of  scarlet 
and  white  camellias.  Again  and-  again,  the  black,  fierce, 
restless  eyes,  flash  their  feverish  light  to  that  one  box.  And 
still  the  man  for  whom  she  looks  does  not  come. 

He  comes  as  the  curtain  falls  for  the  second  time,  and 
France's  eyes  and  smile  welcome  him. 

"Am  I  very  late?"  he  asks.  "McLaren  and  I  had  a 
thousand  things  to  say,  and  time  flew.  I  say,  France,  how 
do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all !  She  fascinates  one,  but  it  is  a  horrid  and 
unhealthy  sort  of  fascination.  Her  mad  s;nging  and  dan 
cing  throw  me  into  a  fever." 

"  Is  there  much  more  of  it  ? "  he  says,  standing  behind 
her  chair.  "Is  it  all  over ?  " 

"  There  is  one  more  act.  She  is  to  be  burned  alive, 
Terry  tells  me,  and  I  want  to  wait  and  see  her.  I  shall  try 
to  fancy  the  burning  real,  and  enjoy  it  accordingly." 

"  By  Jove  ! "  he  says,  and  laughs,  "  what  a  blood-thirsty 
spirit  we  are  developing  !  Ah!  Dynely,  ^<?#  here  ?" 

For  the  door  opens,  and  Eric,  languid  and  handsome, 
saunters  in. 

"How  do,  Caryll?  Late,  ar'n't  you?  Well,  France- 
well,  ma  mere,  how  do  you  like  it  ?  Superb  actress,  isn't  she  ?" 

He  looks  at  France.  With  a  certain  defiance,  she  seeg 
and  accepts. 

"  If  dancing  mad  jigs,  singing  drinking  songs,  and  caper- 


AT   THE    VARIETIES. 


343 


ing  about  like  a  bedlamite,  go  to  constitute  a  fine  actress, 
then  yes.  A  little  of  Madame  Felicia  goes  a  long  way." 

His  eyes  flash,  but  he  laughs. 

"There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes.  She  seems  to  please 
her  audience,  at  least." 

"  Where  is  Crystal  ?  "  France  abruptly  asks.  "  I  thought 
you  were  to  dine  at  the  Embassy." 

"  Crystal  is  at  home.  And  you  thought  quite  right  ;  we 
were  to  dine  at  the  Embassy."  The  defiant  ring  is  more 
marked  than  ever.  "  I  have  dined  there,  and  on  my  way 
home  dropped  in  here,  knowing  I  would  have  the  pleasure 
of  being  in  the  bosom  of  my  family." 

He  looks  at  her  steadfastly,  and  France  turns  her  white 
shoulder  deliberately  upon  him.  Her  lover  is  leaning  over 
the  back  of  her  chair — ah !  how  she  loves  him,  how  she 
trusts  him — how  different  he  is  from  this  shallow-brained 
young  dandy,  with  his  Greek  beauty,  and  callous  heart ! 
How  differently  her  life  will  be  ordered  from  Crystal's,  when 
she  is  his  wife. 

As  she  thinks  it,  the  curtain  goes  up  for  the  third  time, 
and  the  "Golden  Witch"  bounds  on  the  stage. 

She  is  singing  as  she  springs  to  the  footlights,  a  gleeful 
hunting  chorus  this  time.  A  troop  of  followers  in  green  and 
gold  come  after,  and  join  in  the  chorus.  Her  costume  is  of 
green  and  gold  also  ;  a  green  hunting  cap,  with  a  long  white 
plume,  is  set  jauntily  on  her  raven  tresses.  She  is  dazzling 
in  the  dress,  she  is  radiant  as  she  sings.  Again  her  sweet, 
high  voice,  rings  to  the  domed  roof.  And  it  is  the  very  song 
Rosamond  Lovell  sang  for  Gordon  Caryll,  seventeen  years 
ago,  in  the  Toronto  cottage. 

She  flashes  one  fierce  electric  look  up  at  their  box. 

Yes,  he  is  there  at  last — at  last.  Thank  Heaven  for  that ! 
if  she  can  thank  Heaven  for  anything. 

He  hears  her,  he  sees  her ;  recognizes  the  song.  He 
knows  her. 

Her  hour  of  triumph  is  complete.  Her  excitement 
reaches  its  climax.  As  she  never  played  before,  she  plays 
to-night.  She  holds  the  multitude  breathless,  spellbound. 
She  sings  her  own  death-song,  wild,  wailing,  weird,  unearth- 


344  AT   THE    VARIETIES. 

ly,  so  ghastly  in  its  tortured  agony,  that  France  shudders 
and  turns  pale.  The  mimic  flames  arise — surround  her, 
her  uplifted  face  is  seen  above  them,  as  the  curtain  falls 
down,  her  ghastly  death-song  dies  wailing  away. 

For  a  moment,  so  rapt  and  petrified  are  the  audience, 
that  they  cannot  applaud.  Then — such  a  storm  of  clapping, 
of  calling,  shakes  the  walls  of  the  theatre,  as  never  shook  it 
before.  "  Felicia  !  Felicia  !  "  they  shout,  as  with  one  voice. 

She  comes  out  smiling  and  kissing  hands.  Another  tem 
pest  of  applause  and  delight  breaks  forth.  Then  flashing  up 
one  last  look,  straight  into  Gordon  Gary  11' s  face,  she  disap 
pears. 

There  is  a  stir  and  commotion,  an  uprising  and  shawling 
of  ladies. 

"  Ugh  ! "  France  says,  with  a  shudder ;  "  it  is  diabolical  ! 
it  is  like  the  nightmare.  I  shall  never  come  to  see  this  outre 
spectacle  again.  Do  you  like  it,  Gordon  ?  " 

She  leans  back,  and  looks  up  at  him.  He  does  not  seem 
to  hear  her,  he  does  not  seem  to  see  her — he  is  staring  at 
the  stage  like  a  man  stupefied. 

"  Gordon  !  "  she  cries. 

His  eyes  turn  slowly  from  the  blank,  green  curtain  to  her, 
but  his  face  still  keeps  that  dazed,  stunned  look.  His 
bronzed  skin,  too,  has  turned  of  a  dead  ashen  gray. 

"  Gordon,"  France  says  once  more,  this  time  in  terror, 
"  what  is  it  ?  " 

Her  question  seems  to  break  the  spell.  He  makes  an 
effort — a  mighty  effort,  she  can  see,  and  answers  her. 

"  Nothing.     Will  you  come  ?" 

His  very  voice  is  changed — it  is  hoarse  and  low.  He 
offers  her  his  arm  mechanically,  and  watches  her  arranging 
her  opera-wrap,  without  trying  to  help  her.  She  takes  it 
and  goes  with  him  out,  and  all  the  while  he  keeps  the  dazed 
look  of  a  man  who  is  walking  in  his  sleep. 

"  Oh,  Gordon  !"  she  cries  out,  "  what  is  it  ?  Do  you 
know  that  woman  ?  " 

He  wakes  then — wakes  to  the  whole  horrid  truth. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  ask  me,"  he  says,  "to-night 
Wait — wait  until  to-morrow." 


AT  THE    VARIETIES.  345 

Her  eyes  dilate.  They  are  out  under  the'frosty,  February 
stars.  He  puts  them  into  the  carriage — Lady  Dynely  and 
France — but  he  makes  no  effort  to  follow  them.  Eric  and 
Terry  make  their  adieux  and  turn  away. 

"  Are  you  not  coming,  Gordon  ?  "  Lady  Dynely  asks  in 
surprise. 

"  No,"  he  answers,  still  in  that  low,  hoarse  tone.     "  Home," 
he  says  to  the  coachman.     And  as  they  whirl  away,  France 
leans  yearningly  forward,  and  sees  him  standing  under  the 
street  lamps,  quite  alone. 
16* 


CHAPTER  VII. 
"AFTER  MANY  DAYS." 

|E  knows  her  !  From  the  first  moment  in  which  his 
eyes  rested  on  her,  from  the  first  instant  he  has 
heard  her  ringing  voice,  he  knows  it  is  his  wife. 
The  song  she  sang  for  him  in  Major  Lovell's  dim 
drawing-room  so  many  years  ago,  she  is  singing  again  for 
him  to-night,  for  him — he  knows  that,  too.  His  divorced 
wife  stands  yonder  before  him — this  half-nude  actress — his 
divorced  wife  whom  for  the  past  ten  years  he  has  thought 
dead.  He  knows  it  in  that  first  moment  of  recognition  as 
surely  as  he  ever  knew  it  in  the  after  days. 

She  has  hardly  changed  at  all — in  the  strong,  white  lime 
light,  she  does  not  seem  to  have  aged  one  day  in  seventeen 
years.  The  dusk,  sensuous  beauty  is  riper  and  more  of  the 
"earth,  earthy;"  the  delicate  outlines  of  first  youth  have 
passed,  except  that  she  is  even  more  beautiful  in  her  inso 
lent,  voluptuous  womanhood  than  in  her  slim,  first  girlhood. 
He  thinks  this  in  a  dazed,  stupefied  sort  of  way  as  he  stands 
and  looks  at  her.  And  this  is  Rosamond  Lovell — the 
woman  who  was  once  his  wife. 

His  wife  !  his  wife  !  The  two  words  echo  like  a  knell 
through  his  brain,  set  themselves  to  the  wild,  sweet  music 
that  is  ringing  about  him,  fit  themselves  in  time  to  her  flying 
feet.  His  wife  !  Yonder  creature,  singing,  dancing  in  that 
dress,  that  undress  rather — gaped  at  by  all  these  people. 
His  wife ! 

The  lights,  the  faces,  the  stage,  seem  to  swim  before 
him  in  a  hot,  red  mist.  He  grasps  the  back  of  the  chair 
he  holds,  and  sets  his  teeth.  Great  Heaven !  is  the 
Nemesis  of  his  mad,  boyish  folly  to  pursue  him  to  the  end  ? 

And   then   France's  cool,  sweet   voice   falls  on  his  ear. 


"AFTER  MANY  DAYS  "  347 

"Do  you  like  it,  Gordon!"  she  is  asking,  with  a  smile. 
The  fair  pure  face,  the  loving,  upturned  eyes,  the  trustful 
smile,  meet  him  and  stab  him  with  a  pang  that  is  like  death. 
He  has  forgotten  her — in  the  first  shock  of  recognition  and 
dreadful  surprise,  he  has  forgotten  her.  Now  he  looks  down 
upon  her,  and  feels  without  thinking  at  all,  that  in  finding 
his  divorced  wife  he  has  lost  his  bride. 

He  cannot  answer  her — his  head  is  reeling.  He  feels 
her  wondering,  startled  eyes,  but  he  is  beyond  caring.  He 
tries  to  answer,  and  his  voice  sounds  far  off  and  unreal  even 
to  his  own  ears. 

It  ends.  The  curtain  is  down,  the  blinding  stage-light  is 
out,  she  is  gone.  He  can  breathe  once  more  now  that  fatal 
face  is  away.  The  whole  theatre  has  uprisen.  Lady  Dynely 
is  moving  out  on  the  arm  of  her  son — France  is  clasping 
his  and  gazing  up  at  him  with  eyes  of  wistful  wonder. 

They  are  out  under  the  cool,  white  stars — he  has  placed 
them  in  their  carriage,  seen  them  roll  away,  and  is  alone. 

Alone,  though  scores  pass  and  repass,  although  dozens  of 
gay  voices  and  happy  laughs  reach  him  ;  although  all  the 
bright  city  is  still  broad  awake  and  in  the  streets.  He  takes 
off  his  hat  and  lets  the  cold  wind  lift  his  hair.  What  shall 
he  do,  he  thinks,  vaguely ;  what  ought  he  do  first  ? 

Rosamond,  his  divorced  wife,  is  living — he  has  seen  her 
to-night.  And  France  Forrester  will  marry  no  man  who  is 
the  husband  of  a  wife.  They  have  spoken  once  on  the  sub 
ject — gravely  and  incisively — he  recalls  the  conversation 
now,  word  for  word,  as  he  stands  here. 

"If  she  had  not  died,  France,"  he  had  asked  her,  "if 
nothing  but  the  divorce  freed  me — how  then  ?  Would  you 
still  have  loved  me  and  been  my  wife  ?  " 

And  she  had  looked  at  him  with  those  clear,  truthful, 
brave  eyes  of  hers,  and  answered  at  once : 

"  If  she  had  not  died — if  nothing  but  your  divorce  treed 
you,  there  could  have  been  no  *  how  then'  Loved  you  I 
might — it  seems  to  me  I  must  ;  but  marry  you — no.  No 
more  than  I  would  if  there  had  never  been  a  divorce.  A 
man  can  have  but  one  wife,  and  death  alone  can  sever  the 
bond.  I  believe  in  no  latter-day  doctrine  of  divorce." 


348  "AFTER   MANY  DAYS." 

They  had  spoken  of  it  no  more,  he  had  thought  of  it  no 
more.  It  all  comes  back  to  him  as  he  stands  here,  and 
he  knows  he  has  lost  forever  France  Forrester. 

And  then,  in  his  utter  despair,  a  wild  idea  flashes  across 
his  brain,  and  he  catches  at  it  as  the  drowning  catch  at 
straws.  It  is  not  his  wife — he  will  not  believe  it.  It  is  an 
accidental  resemblance — it  may  be  a  relative — a  sister;  she 
may  have  had  sisters,  for  what  he  ever  knew.  It  is  not 
Rosamond  Lovell — the  dead  do  not  arise,  and  she  was 
killed  ten  years  ago.  Some  one  must  know  this  Madame 
Felicia's  antecedents;  it  is  only  one  of  these  accidental 
resemblances  that  startle  the  world  sometimes.  He  will 
find  out.  Who  is  it  knows  Madame  P'elicia? 

He  puts  his  hand  to  his  head  as  this  delirious  idea  flashes 
through  it,  and  tries  to  think.  Terry  Dennison — yes,  he  is 
sure  Terry  Dennison  knows  her,  and  knows  her  well.  He 
will  be  able  to  tell  him  ;  he  will  follow  at  once. 

A  moment  later  and  he  is  striding  with  a  speed  of  which 
he  is  unconscious  in  the  direction  of  the  Hotel  du  Louvre. 
He  finds  his  man  readily  enough.  Terry  is  standing  in  the 
brilliantly-lit  vestibule,  smoking  a  cigar.  Eric  is  bon  gar$on, 
and  has  run  up  at  once  to  his  wife.  A  heavy  hand  is  laid 
on  Terry's  shoulder,  a  breathless  voice  speaks : 

"  Dennison !  " 

Terry  turns  round,  takes  out  his  cigar,  and  opens  his 
eyes. 

"  What !  Caryll !  And  at  this  time  of  night !  What's  the 
matter  ?  My  dear  fellow,  anything  wrong  ?  You  look — " 

"  There's  nothing  wrong,"  still  huskily.  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question,  Dennison.  Come  out  of  this." 

He  links  his  arm  through  Terry's,  and  draws  him  out 
of  the  hotel  entrance  into  the  street.  Terry  still  holds  his 
cigar  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  still  stares  blankly. 

"  There  must  be  something  wrong,"  he  reiterates ;  "  on 
my  word,  my  dear  fellow,  you  look  awfully," 

"  Never  mind  my  looks,"  Caryll  impatiently  cries.  "Den 
nison,  you  know  Madame  Felicia  ?  " 

At  this  unexpected  question,  Dennison,  if  possible,  stands 
more  agape  than  ever.  Then  he  laughs. 


"AFTER   MANY  DAYS."  349 

"  What !     You,  too,  Caryll !     Oh,  this  is  too  much — " 

"  Don't  laugh,"  Caryll  says,  harshly.  "  Answer  rue. 
You  know  this  woman  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes." 

"  Intimately  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  again.  1  suppose  I  may  say  tolerably  inti 
mately." 

"  What  is  her  history  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  Who  is  she  ?  Where  does  she  come  from  ?  What  is 
her  real  name  ? "  Caryll  asks,  still  in  that  same  hoarse, 
breathless  haste. 

Mr.  Dennison's  eyes  dilate  to  twice  their  usual  size.  He 
altogether  forgets  to  resume  his  newly-lit  cigar. 

"  My  dear  fellow " 

"  The  devil ! "  Gordon  Caryll  grinds  out  between  his  set 
teeth.  "  Answer  me,  cannot  you  ?  " 

No  jesting  matter  this,  evidently,  and  Terry,  slow  natu 
rally,  takes  that  fact  in. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  Where  does  she  come  from  ?  WThat  was 
the  rest  ?  "  he  demands  helplessly.  "  Good  Lord  !  Caryll, 
how  should  I  know?  I'm  not  Felicia's  father  confessor." 

"  You  told  me  you  knew  her  intimately." 

"  I  know  her  as  well  as  most  people  know  most  people, 
and  that  goes  for  nothing.  What  do  we,  any  of  us,  know  of 
any  one  else?  Don't  grow  impatient,  old  fellow;  all  I 
know  I'm  willing  to  tell,  but  it's  precious  little.  Now  be 
gin  at  the  beginning  and  cross-examine.  You  shall  have 
the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Only 
don't  keep  the  steam  up  to  its  present  height,  or  you'll  go  off 
with  a  bang  !  " 

There  is  a  second  pause.  Terry  resumes  his  cigar,  thrusts 
his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets  and  waits.  Gordon  Caryll 
comes  to  his  senses  sufficiently  to  make  a  great  effort  and 
calm  down. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Terry,"  he  says,  more  coherently 
than  he  has  yet  spoken  ;  "  but  this  is  a  matter  of  no  ordinary 
importance  to  me — a  matter  almost  of  life  and  death." 

Again  Terry's  eyes  dilate,  but  this  time  he  says  nothing. 


35O  "AFTER  MANY  DAYS" 

"  I  never  saw  Madame  Felicia  before  to-night,"  goes  on 
Caryll;  "  and  she  bears  the  most  astonishing,  the  irost  as 
tounding  resemblance  to  another  woman,  a  woman  I  have 
thought  dead  for  the  past  ten  years.  I  want  to  know  her 
history,  and  I  have  come  to  you." 

"  Go  on,"  says  Terry,  calmly. 

"Was  Madame  Felicia  ever  in  America? — ever  in" — a 
pause — "in  Canada?" 

"She  says  not,"  is  Terry's  answer. 

"  Says  not  ?     Then  you  think — " 

"  I  think  she  was.  She  has  always  been  so  vehement  in 
denying  it  that  I  have  suspected  from  the  first  she  lied. 
And  since  last  night  I  felt  sure  of  it." 

"  Since  last  night—" 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  quite  fair  to  tell,"  says  Terry; 
"  but  I  don't  see  that  I'm  bound  to  keep  Felicia's  secrets — I 
owe  her  no  good  turn,  and  if  it's  of  any  use  to  you,  Caryll — " 

"Anything — everything  connected  with  that  woman  is  of 
use  to  me,"  Caryll  answers,  feverishly. 

Without  more  ado,  Terry  relates  the  episode  of  last  night 
— the  rescuing  the  girl  in  the  street,  her  inadvertent  words, 
and  the  bringing  her  to  Felicia. 

"  She  asseverated  again  and  again  that  Felicia  had  been  in 
Canada.  She  said  she  herself  had  been  born  there,  in  such 
a  way,  by  Jove  !  that  you  could  only  infer  Felicia  to  be  her 
mother.  And  she  looked  like  Felicia.  And  she  had  Felicia's 
picture.  And  Felicia  received  her  at  once.  And  I  believe, 
upon  my  soul,  that  she  is  Felicia's  daughter." 

Gordon  Caryll  listened  dumbly.  Felicia's  child  and  — 
his.  He  knew  there  had  been  a  child — a  daughter — had 
not  Mr.  Barteaux  told  him  ?  And  she  too  was  here. 

"  She  called  herself—  ?  "  he  began. 

"  She  called  herself  Gordon  Kennedy.  Gordon  f  By 
Jove  !  "  For  the  first  time  a  sudden  thought  strikes  Terry — 
a  thought  so  sudden,  and  so  striking  that  it  almost  knocks 
him  over.  "  By  Jove  ! "  he  repeats  again,  and  stares  blankly 
at  his  companion. 

There  is  no  need  of  further  questioning.  Assurance  is 
made  doubly  sure — Felicia  and  Rosamond  Lovell  are  one, 


"AFTER  MANY  DAYS."  351 

and  this  girl  picked  up  adrift  in  the  Paris  streets  is  his 
daughter.  No  need  of  further  questions,  indeed.  He 
withdraws  his  arm  abruptly  and  on  the  spot. 

"That  will  do/'  he  says.  "Thanks,  very  much.  And 
good-night." 

Then  he  is  gone,  and  Terry  is  left  standing,  mouth  and 
eyes  open — a  petrified  pedestrian.  It  all  comes  upon  him 
— the  story  of  Gordon  Caryll's  Canadian  wife — the  actress — 
the  picture — the  puzzling  resemblance  to  Felicia — her  eager 
questions  about  him  the  evening  before.  Terry  is  dumb 
founded. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  says  again  aloud,  and  at  the  sound  of  that 
dear  and  familiar  expletive  his  senses  return.  "  By  Jove, 
you  know!"  he  repeats,  and  puts  his  cigar  once  more  be 
tween  his  lips,  and  in  a  dazed  state  prepares  to  go  home. 

Gordon  Caryll  goes  home  too.  He  sees  France's  face  at 
the  drawing-room  window  as  he  passes,  looking  wistful  and 
weary,  and  at  the  sight  he  sets  his  teeth  hard.  He  cannot 
meet  her.  He  goes  up  to  his  room,  locks  the  door,  and 
flings  himself  into  a  chair  to  think  it  all  out. 

He  has  lost  her — forever  lost  her.  To-morrow  at  the 
latest  she  must  know  all,  and  then — he  knows  as  surely  as 
that  he  is  sitting  here — she  will  never  so  much  as  see  him 
again. 

It  is  no  fault  of  his — she  will  not  blame  him — she  will 
love  and  pity  him,  and  suffer  as  acutely  as  he  will  suffer  him 
self.  All  the  same,  though,  she  will  never  see  him  more. 
And  at  the  thought  he  starts  from  his  chair,  goaded  to  a  sort 
of  madness,  and  walks  up  and  down  the  room. 

The  hours  pass.  He  thinks  and  thinks,  but  all  to  no 
purpose — not  all  the  thinking  he  can  do  in  a  lifetime  can 
alter  facts.  This  woman  is  his  divorced  wife — and  France 
Forrester  will  marry  no  divorced  man.  The  law  can  free 
him  from  his  wife,  but  it  cannot  give  him  France.  The  pen 
alty  of  his  first  folly  has  not  been  paid — and  it  is  to  be  paid, 
it  seems,  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  His  exile  and  misery 
are  to  begin  all  over  again. 

He  suffers  to-night,  it  seems  to  him,  as  he  has  never  suf 
fered  in  the  past.  And  as  the  fair  February  morning  dawns, 


352  "AFTER  MANY  DAYS." 

it  finds  him  with  his  face  bowed  in  his  hands,  sitting  stone, 
still  in  absolute  despair. 

The  first  sharp  spear  of  sunshine  comes  jubilantly  through 
the  glass.  He  lifts  his  head.  Haggard  and  pallid  beyond 
all  telling,  with  eyes  dry  and  burning,  and  white  despair  on 
every  line  of  his  face.  His  resolve  is  taken.  All  shall  be 
told,  but  first  that  there  may  not  be  even  a  shadow  of  mis 
take,  he  will  see  this  woman  who  calls  herself  Madame 
Felicia — will  see  her  and  from  her  own  lips  know  the  truth. 

Early  as  it  is  he  rings  for  his  man,  and  has  a  cold  bath. 
It  stands  him  in  the  stead  of  sleep.  He  makes  a  careful 
toilet,  has  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll,  and  goes  out  of  the 
house  before  any  of  his  womankind  are  stirring. 

The  bright  sunshine  and  bustle  of  the  streets  help  him. 
He  smokes,  and  that  soothes  him.  As  eleven  chimes  from 
all  the  city  clocks,  he  is  altogether  himself  again,  the  excite 
ment  and  agitation  of  last  night  over  and  done  with.  He 
is  very  pale — beyond  that  there  is  no  change  in  him. 

He  feels  no  anger  against  the  woman  he  is  going  to  see — 
he  is  just  enough  for  that.  The  fault  has  been  all  his — all 
his  also  must  be  the  atonement.  But  he  will  see  her,  and 
then- 
He  cannot  quite  think — steady  as  he  has  forced  himself  to 
be — of  what  will  come  after.  It  is  very  early  yet  to  make  a 
call,  but  he  cannot  wait.  It  is  not  difficult  to  discover  the 
address  of  the  most  popular  actress  in  Paris ;  he  does  dis 
cover  it,  walks  steadfastly  there,  and  encounters  madame's 
tall  chasseur  in  his  gorgeous  uniform  of  carmine  and  gold. 

Madame  sees  no  one  at  this  hour,  monsieur  is  politely 
told  ;  it  is  doubtful  if  madame  has  arisen. 

But  madame  will  see  him,  monsieur  is  quite  certain.  Will 
this  Parisian  "  Jeames  De  La  Pluche  "  be  good  enough  to 
forward  monsieur's  card  to  madame. 

The  chasseur  looks  doubtful,  but  something  in  the  English 
monsieur's  face  causes  him  to  comply.  The  card  is  passed 
onward,  and  inward,  until  it  reaches  the  hand  of  madame's 
maid,  and  by  madame's  maid  is  presented  to  madame. 

Madame  has  arisen — early  as  is  the  hour,  has  even  break 
fasted.  She  lies  back  in  her  dusk-shaded  drawing-room, 


"AFTER  MANY  DAYS."  353 

looking  rather  fagged  after  last  night's  unusual  excitement, 
with  deep  bistre  circles  surrounding  her  eyes.  Her  lady 
companion  sits  near  reading  aloud.  She  lies  back  with  closed 
eyes,  not  listening,  but  thinking  of  Gordon  Caryll's  face  as 
she  saw  it  last  night  looking  down  upon  her. 

"  A  visitor  for  madame — a  gentleman,"  Pauline  announces. 

"  I  can  see  no  one,  it  is  too  early,"  madame  says  crossly  ; 
"  is  it  M.  Di  Venturini  ?  " 

"  No,  madame.  An  English  gentleman,  tall  and  fair — 
who  has  never  been  here  before." 

Madame  sits  suddenly  up,  and  seizes  the  card.  Her  pale 
face  flushes  dark  red  as  she  reads  the  name.  She  does  not 
quite  know  what  she  has  expected — certainly  not  this.  For 
a  moment  her  heart  beats  fast. 

"  I  will  see  the  gentleman,  Pauline,"  she  says.  "  Mrs. 
Hannery,  you  must  be  tired  of  that  stupid  book.  The 
morning  is  fine — suppose  you  take  Pandore  [the  poodle]  and 
go  for  a  walk.  It  will  do  you  both  good,  and  I  shall  not 
need  you." 

Thus  dismissed,  the  lady  companion  rises  and  goes ; 
madame  turns  to  her  maid  : 

"  Where  is  my  new  protegee  ?  "  she  asks.     "  Miss  Donny." 

"  In  her  room,  madame,  reading." 

"  See  that  she  does  not  leave  it  then,  see  that  she  does 
not  enter  here.  Now  show  the  gentleman  up." 

The  maid  departs.  Madame  springs  up,  darkens  the 
room  yet  a  little  more,  looks  at  herself  in  one  of  the  full- 
length  mirrors,  and  is  back  in  her  seat  with  drooping,  languid 
eyes  before  the  door  re-opens.  But  her  heart  is  beating 
fast,  and  her  topaz  eyes  are  gleaming  savagely  under  their 
white-veiled  lids. 

The  door  opens,  and  he  comes  in.  And  so  again,  after 
many  years,  this  man  and  woman,  once  husband  and  wife — • 
are  face  to  face. 

The  first  thing  he  sees  in  that  twilight  of  the  room  is  hig 
own  picture.  It  hangs  directly  opposite  the  door,  and  the 
sunshine,  as  it  opens,  falls  for  a  moment  upon  it.  Like  that 
they  parted,  like  this  they  meet  again  !  He  stands  for  a 
second  motionless,  looking  at  it,  and  she  is  the  first  to  speak, 


354  "AFTER  MANY  DAYS." 

11  A  very  good  picture,  and  very  well  painted  ;  but  I  don't 
think,  I  can't  think,  I  ever  wore  such  a  face  of  despair  as 
that.  You  ought  to  know,  though,  better  than  I." 

The  slow,  sweet  voice  was  as  smooth  and  even  as  though 
the  heart  beneath  were  not  throbbing  at  fever  heat.  A  cruel, 
lingering  smile  was  on  her  face,  and  the  yellow,  stealthy  eyes 
were  watching  him  greedily.  He  turned  as  she  spoke  and 
looked  at  her. 

"Rosamond!" 

She  started  at  the  name,  at  the  low,  even  gentle  tone,  in 
which  it  was  spoken.  The  blood  rose  again  over  her  face, 
and  for  a  second  she  found  no  voice  to  answer.  Then  she 
laughed. 

"  Ma  foi !  "  she  said,  "  how  droll  it  sounds  to  hear  that !  I 
had  almost  forgotten  that  once  was  my  name,  so  long  is  it  since 
I  have  heard  it  ?  Ah,  Dieu  !  how  old  it  makes  one  feel." 

A  real  pang  went  through  her  heart.  Growing  old ! 
Yes,  surely,  and  to  grow  old  was  the  haunting  terror  of  this 
woman's  life. 

"  You  have  changed,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  full, 
"  changed  more  than  I  have.  You  do  not  resemble  very 
greatly  the  slender,  fair-haired  stripling  I  knew  so  long  ago 
in  Toronto.  And  yet  I  should  have  known  you  anywhere. 
Mon  ami,  will  you  not  sit  down  ?  " 

"  Thanks,"  he  answered  in  the  same  low,  level  voice,  "  I 
will  not  detain  you  but  a  moment.  Last  night,  for  the  first 
time  since  we  parted  at  Quebec,  I  saw  you — " 

"And  the  sight  was  a  shock,  was  it  not,  monsieur?"  she 
gayly  interrupted. 

"  It  was,"  he  replied  gravely,  "  since  I  thought  you  dead. 
Since  I  was  sure  of  it." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  that  railway  accident.  Well,  it  was  touch  and 
go — I  never  expect  to  be  so  near  death,  and  escape  again. 
But  I  did  escape,  and — here  I  am  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  insolent  smile,  her  eyes  gleam- 
irg  with  evil  fire. 

"  Here  I  am,"  she  repeated  with  slow,  lingering  enjoy- 
in  'nt ;  "  and  it  spoils  your  life  for  you — does  it  not  ?  As 

i  spoiled  mine  for  me  that  night." 


"AFTER  MANY  DAYS: 


355 


She  pointed  to  the  picture — the  vengeful  delight  she  felt 
shining  in  her  great  eyes. 

"  You  were  merciless  that  night,  Gordon  Caryll,  and  I 
vowed  revenge,  did  I  not  ?  Well  the  years  have  come  and 
the  years  have  gone ;  we  both  lived,  and  revenge  was  out  of 
rny  reach.  I  never  forgave  you  and  I  never  will ;  but  what 
could  I  do  ?  Now  we  meet,  and  I  need  do  nothing.  The 
very  fact  that  I  am  alive  is  vengeance  enough.  It  parts  you 
from  her — does  it  not  ?  Ah,  you  feel  that !  Monseigneur, 
I  wonder  why  you  have  come  here  this  morning?  It  is  cer 
tainly  an  honor  I  did  not  expect." 

"  I  came  to  make  assurance  certainty,"  he  answered.  "  I 
had  no  doubt,  and  still — " 

"  And  still  you  would  stand  face  to  face  with  me  once 
more.  Well — there  is  no  doubt,  is  there  ?  I  am  Rosamond 
Lovell — Rosamond  Caryll — the  girl  you  married,  and  whose 
heart  you  so  nearly  broke,  seventeen  years  ago.  Oh,  don't 
look  so  scornful !  I  mean  it !  Even  I  had  a  heart,  and  I 
loved  you.  Loved  you  so  well  that  if  I  had  been  able  I 
would  have  gone  down  to  the  river  and  drowned  myself  after 
you  left  me  that  night.  Fortunately  I  was  not  able.  I  could 
laugh  now  when  I  look  back  and  think  of  my  besotted  folly. 
We  outlive  all  that  at  five-and-thirty." 

"  You  were  not  able,"  he  repeated  ;  "  that  means — " 

"  That  my  child  was  born  twelve  hours  after  we  parted," 
she  interrupted  once  more.  "  Did  they  tell  you  in  Quebec 
that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  told  me.     And  the  child  is  with  you  now." 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?"  she  demanded,  sharply. 

"  I  know  it — that  is  enough.  You  ask  me  why  I  came 
here  to-day — one  reason  was  to  see  her." 

She  laughed  contemptuously. 

"And  do  you  fancy  I  will  let  you  ?  Why,  I  meant  that 
child  from  her  birth  to  avenge  her  mother's  wrongs.  And 
she  shall — I  swear  it  ?  " 

"  You  refuse  to  let  me  see  her  ?  " 

"Most  emphatically — yes.  When  the  time  comes  you 
shall  see  her  to  your  cost — not  before." 

He  turned  tc  go      She  rose  up  and  stood  before  him. 


356  "AFTER  MANY  DAYS" 

"  What !  so  soon,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  and  after  so 
many  years'  separation  ?  Well,  then,  go — actions,  not  words, 
are  best  between  us.  But  I  think,  Gordon  Caryll,  my  day 
has  come.  Miss  France  Forrester  is  a  very  proud  and  spot 
less  young  lady — so  they  tell  me.  Have  you  told  her  yet 
who  Felicia  the  actress  is  ?  " 

He  made  no  reply.  Without  speaking  to  her,  without 
looking  at  her,  he  passed  out  of  the  greenisr.  dusk  of  the 
perfumed  drawing-room  into  the  sparkling  sunshine,  and 
fresh,  cool  wind  of  the  fair  spring  day. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  MORNING   CALL. 

|T  is  just  one  hour  later,  and  France  Forrestet  stands 
with  hands  clasped  loosely  before  her  at  the  win 
dow  of  Mrs.  Caryll's  invalid  room,  gazing  with 
weary  wistfulness  at  the  bright  avenue  below,  a 
strained,  waiting,  listening  expression  on  her  face.  For 
since  they  parted  last  night  so  strangely  at  the  entrance  of 
the  theatre  she  has  not  seen  her  lover,  and  when  has  that 
chanced  between  them  before  ?  Something  has  happened  ! 
Something  wrong  and  unpleasant — she  feels  that  vaguely, 
although  she  cannot  define  her  own  feeling.  How  oddly  he 
looked  last  night,  how  strangely  he  spoke,  how  singularly 
he  acted.  Did  he  too  know  Madame  Felicia?  Then  she 
smiled  to  herself.  Of  course  not — had  he  not  said  so  a 
dozen  times.  Madame  Felicia  might  have  power  over  the 
weak  and  unstable,  such  as  Eric  Dynely ;  over  men  of 
the  stuff  Gorden  Caryll  was  made,  no  more  than  the  ugliest 
hag  that  prowled  Paris. 
But  why  did  he  not  come  ? 

Last  night,  long  after  the  rest  had  retired,  she  had  waited 
up  in  the  salon  wistfully  anxious  for  the  good-night  she  so 
rarely  missed.  And  he  had  entered  very  late,  and  had 
passed  on  at  once  to  his  room,  although  he  must  have  known 
she  would  wait.  Had  he  not  been  belated  times  before, 
and  had  she  ever  failed  to  wait — had  he  ever  failed  to  seek 
her  out  ?  She  had  gone  to  bed  vexed  and  disappointed. 
But  she  was  not  one  easily  to  take  offence,  and  it  would  be 
all  right  to-morrow.  He  might  have  looked  into  the  salon, 
but  he  did  not — and — there  was  an  end  to  it.  To-morrow 
at  breakfast  he  would  tell  her,  whatever  it  might  be.  So 
she  rose  happy  and  light-hearted,  the  fag-end  of  a  tune  be- 


358 


A  MORNING   CALL. 


tween  her  lips,  with  no  presentiment  of  all  that  was  so  neal 
shadowing  her  happy  girl's  heart. 

Breakfast  hour.  She  ran  down  eagerly.  Gordon  was 
never  late.  He  was  always  to  be  found  in  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers  reading  Galignani  at  this  hour.  But  his 
favorite  arm-chair  this  morning  was  vacant,  and  only  Lady 
Dynely  met  her  across  the  crystal  and  the  silver. 

"  Has  Gordon  turned  lazy,  I  wonder  ? "  the  elder  lady 
said,  carelessly ;  "  it  is  something  new  to  miss  his  face  at 
the  end  of  the  table.  Eric  and  his  wife  are  coming  to-day. 
France  and  I  had  counted  on  Gordon  for  you.  We  are  going 
to  Saint  Cloud,  and  if  Gordon  does  not  return — " 

"  In  any  case  I  do  not  think  I  shall  go,"  France  answered, 
rather  wearily.  "  One  grows  so  bored  of  perpetual  sight 
seeing.  I  shall  stay  at  home  with  grandmamma  Caryll." 

She  had  no  appetite  for  breakfast,  and  when  it  was  over 
she  ran  up  to  say  good-morning  to  "grandmamma."  No, 
Gordon  had  not  been  there  either — his  mother's  first  ques 
tion  was  for  him. 

"  It  is  the  very  first  day  he  has  failed  to  pay  me  a  before 
breakfast  call,"  Mrs.  Caryll  said,  with  a  half-laugh,  and  yet 
dissatisfied.  t(  Can  he  have  gone  out,  or  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  France  answered,  vaguely  uneasy ;  "  he 
was  not  down  to  breakfast." 

"  Not  down  to  breakfast  ?  " 

"  He  was  absent  rather  late  last  night,"  Miss  Forrester 
said,  speaking  lightly;  "no  doubt  he  has  turned  sluggard, 
and  overslept  himself.  Susan,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Caryll's 
nurse  and  maid,  who  entered  at  that  moment,  "  do  you 
know  if  Mr.  Caryll  is  still  in  his  room  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Caryll  went  out  three  hours  ago,  Miss  France/'  the 
woman  answered.  "  So  I  heard  his  man  Norton  say." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  How  very  strange,"  France  was  thinking,  more  and 
more  uneasily ;  "  how  very  unlike  Gordon.  What  can  it 
mean  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  solution  of  the  enigma.  The  morning 
wore  on,  bringing  Eric  and  Crystal — Eric  handsome  and  de- 
bonnaire  as  ever,  Crystal  clinging  to  his  arm,  silent,  shadowy. 


A  MORNING   CALL.  359 

And  Lady  Dynely  alone  was  their  companion  in  the  day's 
pleasuring  at  Saint  Cloud. 

"  I  wish  you  were  coming,  France,"  Crystal  said,  in  a 
wistful  whisper.  Somehow,  in  France's  strength  and  sunny 
brightness,  even  this  little  wilted  lily  seemed  to  revive. 

"  Not  to-day,  darling,"  France  answered,  kissing  her.  "  It 
will  not  do  to  leave  grandmamma  quite  alone.  Besides, 
Saint  Cloud  is  an  old  story  to  me  and  rather  a  tiresome  one. 
We  will  all  meet  at  dinner  and  go  to  the  Opera  aux  Italiens 
together." 

"Has  Crystal's  eloquence  prevailed,  France?"  Eric  says 
in  his  languid  way,  sauntering  up.  "  No  ?  Then,"  with  a 
slight,  half-contemptuous  laugh,  "  the  case  is  hopeless  indeed. 
When  a  woman  won't,  she  won't.  I  suppose  we  must  be 
resigned,  although  your  absence  spoils  our  excursion. 
Come,  madre,  come,  sposo  mio.  By-by,  France — '  we  meet 
again  at  Philippi.'  " 

And  then  they  are  gone,  and  France  draws  a  long  breath 
of  relief.  Gordon  will  be  here  presently,  and  they  will  have 
a  long,  delicious  day  all  to  themselves,  and  everything  will 
be  explained. 

She  goes  up  to  Mrs.  Caryll's  room,  takes  a  favorite  book, 
seats  herself  by  a  window,  whence  no  one  can  enter  un  per 
ceived,  and  tries  to  read.  But  so  many  people  come  in  and 
go  out,  so  many  carriages  and  fiacres  whirl  up  and  down, 
that  her  attention  is  perpetually  distracted.  How  long  the 
hours  are — how  the  morning  drags — will  he  never  come  ? 
Eleven,  twelve,  one  !  Will  he  return  to  luncheon  at  t\vo  ? 
He  hardly  ever  eats  luncheon,  but  surely  he  will  come. 
How  dazzlingly  bright  the  sunshine  is — her  eyes  ache.  She 
rises  with  an  impatient  sigh  and  closes  the  curtains.  A 
brass  band  somewhere  near  is  thundering  forth  its  music. 
They  are  playing  one  of  Felicia's  popular  airs.  She  wishes 
they  would  stop  ;  the  noise  makes  her  head  ache.  Mrs. 
Caryllis  dozing  in  her  chair.  The  brazen  braying  of  the 
band  is  beginning  to  make  France  sleepy  toe.  Just  as  her 
tired  eyes  close,  and  her  head  droops  against  the  back  of 
her  chair,  Susan  taps  softly  and  enters  the  room. 

"  Miss  France."     She  has  to  repeat  the  name  before  the 


360  A  MORNING   CALL. 

girl  looks  up.  "Miss  France,  there  is  a  lady  in  the  sdon  tc 
see  you." 

"  A  lady."  For  a  moment  her  heart  had  bounded.  But, 
only  a  lady  ! 

"  Susan,"  she  impatiently  exclaims,  "  hasn't  Mr.  Gordon 
corne  yet  ?  Surely  he  must  be  in  his  room  or — " 

"  No,  Miss  France,  he  hasn't  come  yet.  And  the  lady 
is  waiting  in  the  salon — " 

"Who  is  she?  Where  is  her  card?  I  am  not  dressed. 
I  don't  wish  to  see  any  one." 

"  She  would  not  give  her  name  ;  she  sent  up  no  card, 
She  said  she  wished  to  see  Miss  Forrester  at  once  on  very 
important  business." 

"  Very  important  business  !  "  Miss  Forrester  rises,  open 
ing  her  hazel  eyes.  "  Important  business  !  "  Again  her 
heart  leaps — is  it  anything  about  Gordon  ?  "  In  the  salon, 
you  say,  Susan  ?  I'll  go  down  at  once." 

She  goes.  In  the  long,  cool  salon,  the  jalousies  are  half- 
closed,  and  in  the  dim,  greenish  light  a  lady  sits.  A  lady 
very  elegantly  dressed — 0z/<?r-dressed,  it  seems  to  France, 
her  face  hidden  by  a  close,  black  lace  veil. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,  madame  ?  "  Miss  Forrester  says 
gently,  and  marvelling  who  her  veiled  visitor  can  be. 

The  lady  turns,  rises.  "Miss  Forrester?"  she  says,  in 
terrogatively,  and  Miss  Forrester,  still  standing,  bows. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me  on  important  business — " 

France  does  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  the  lady  quietly 
removes  her  veil,  and  they  stand  face  to  face.  A  very 
beautiful  and  striking  face  France  sees,  and  oddly  familiar, 
though  for  the  moment  she  cannot  place  it.  Only  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  she  recoils  a  step. 

"  Madame  Felicia  !  "  she  exclaims. 

"  Madame  Felicia  !  "  the  actress  repeats,  with  a  graceful 
stage  bow  and  a  coolly  insolently  smile.  "  Now  you  know 
why  I  did  not  send  up  my  name.  You  would  not  have  seen 
me." 

Miss  Forrester  has  recovered  herself.  Surprised  excess 
ively  she  is  still ;  intensely  curious  she  is  also,  but  outwardly 
she  is  only  calmly,  quietly  courteous. 


A  MORNING   CALL.  36! 

"  You  mistake,"  she  says,  in  the  same  coldly  gentle  tone ; 
"  I  'vould  have  seen  you.  May  I  ask  to  what  I  owe  this 
unexpected  visit  ?  " 

She  seats  herself  at  a  distance,  near  one  of  the  windows, 
and  glances  at  her  watch  as  a  hint  to  be  brief.  Madame 
Felicia  takes  the  hint.  The  coolly  insolent  smile  yet  lingers 
round  the  full,  red  lips,  the  yellowish  black  eyes  (like  a  cat's 
eyes,  France  thinks)  have  an  exultant,  triumphant  light. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you  long,"  she  says  ;  "  and  I  think 
what  I  have  to  say  will  not  bore  you.  May  I  ask — although 
I  know  you  have  not — have  you  seen  Mr.  Gordon  Caryil 
this  morning?  " 

France's  heart  gives  one  leap.  It  is  something  about 
Gordon  after  all.  Her  dark  face  pales  slightly  ;  and  she  has 
to  pause  a  second  before  she  can  quite  steady  her  voice. 

"And  may  /ask,"  she  says,  haughtily,  "in  what  way  that 
concerns  you  ?  " 

"  It  concerns  me  much  more  nearly  than  you  think,"  the 
actress  answers.  "You  shall  hear  presently.  I  know  you 
have  not  seen  him  this  morning,  else  you  would  not  be  sit 
ting  here  with  me  now.  I  thought  I  would  be  beforehand 
with  him,  and  I  am.  I  thought  he  would  hardly  have  the 
courage  to  come  straight  from  me  to  you." 

The  blood  rushes  in  a  torrent  to  France's  face,  to  her 
temples. 

"  From  me  to  you  ! "  There  is  a  great  green  tub  of  jes 
samines  in  full  bloom  standing  behind  her.  Is  it  the  sweet, 
sickly  odor  of  the  flowers  that  turns  her  so  deathly  faint  now  ? 
"From  you  to  me,"  she  repeats;  "I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  don't.  Mr.  Caryil  has  not  been 
visible  here  this  morning  because  he  has  been  with  me.  He 
left  me  just  one  hour  and  a  half  ago,  and  I  dressed  at  once 
and  came  to  see  you.  You  should  hear  the  story  from  me 
as  well  as  from  him.  I  was  resolved  I  should  have  no  more 
of  your  blame  than  was  my  due.  I  saw  you  in  the  box  last 
night  at  the  Varieties.  I  saw  you  often  last  spring  in  Lon 
don.  You  looked  good,  and  brave,  and  noble,  and  although 
I  care  little  for  the  opinion  of  the  world,  of  its  women  par- 
16 


362  A  MORNING   CALL. 

ticularly,"  with  a  reckless  laugh,  "  it  is  my  whim  to  stand  as 
well  as  possible  with  you.  I  felt  sure  I  would  be  before 
him.  Men  do  not  hasten  to  tell  such  a  story  as  he  has  to 
tell  you." 

Oh,  the  deathly  faintness  of  these  jessamine  flowers.  Oh, 
the  horrible  clashing,  crashing  of  the  band,  whose  braying 
seems  to  pierce  her  head.  For  a  moment  France  turns  so 
giddy  and  sick  that  she  cannot  speak.  The  actress  half 
rises  in  alarm. 

"  Miss  Forrester !  you  are  going  to  faint — " 

But  France  lifts  her  hand  and  motions  her  to  be  still. 

"Wait,"  she  says,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  You  have 
frightened  me.  I  am  all  right  again.  Now  go  on." 

She  sits  upright  with  an  effort,  clenches  her  hands  together 
in  her  lap,  and  sets  her  teeth. 

"  Go  on  ! "  she  says  almost  fiercely,  and  looks  Madame 
Felicia  full  in  the  face. 

The  insolent  smile,  the  exultant  light,  have  died  out  of  the 
dark  face  of  the  dancer.  In  its  stead  a  touch  of  pity  has 
come.  After  all,  this  girl  is  to  suffer  as  she  suffered  once — 
and  she  remembers  well  what  that  means. 

"  Miss  Forrester,"  she  says,  gravely,  "  did  you  notice 
nothing  unusual  in  Mr.  CarylFs  looks  or  manner  last  night 
at  the  Varieties — last  night,  when  he  saw  me  ?  " 

Did  she  ?  Did  she  not  ?  The  ashen  pallor  of  his  face,  the 
husky  tone  of  his  voice,  and  his  abrupt  departure  ! 

"  Go  on,"  she  says,  under  her  breath  again. 

"Let  me  ask  you  one  other  question,"  says  Madame 
Felicia.  "  You  are  to  marry  Gordon  Caryll?  " 

"  I  am." 

She  seems  to  answer  by  no  volition  of  her  own.  Even  at 
this  moment  it  strikes  her — what  an  odd  thing  that  she, 
France  Forrester,  should  be  sitting  here  answering  whatever 
questions  this  dancing-woman  chooses  to  ask. 

"  You  know  his  story,  of  course — that  he  had  a  wife,  that 
he  was  divorced.  You  think,  you  all  think,  he  is  a  wid 
ower." 

"  Yes,"  France  says  in  the  same  mechanical  way — slowly 
and  dully,  "  he  is  a  widower." 


A  MORNING    CALL.  363 

"  He  is  not  a  widower,"  Madame  Felicia  cries,  with  one 
flash  of  her  black  eyes — "no  more  than  I  am  a  widow.  He 
thought  me  dead,  thought  me  killed  in  a  railway  accident. 
I  was  not.  For  seventeen  years  we  have  not  met.  Last 
night  we  did.  Miss  Forrester,  I  am  Gordon  CarylFs  wife  ! " 

"  His  wife  ! "  France  has  known  it  before  it  is  said. 
"  His  wife!  his  wife  !  "  How  oddly  it  sounds.  She  is  con 
scious  of  no  acute  pain — her  principal  wish,  as  she  listens  al 
most  dreamily,  is  that  that  horrible  band  would  cease  and 
that  she  could  get  away  from  the  smell  of  these  jessamines. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  understand,  Miss  Forrester,"  Fe 
licia  cries  sharply.  "  I  repeat,  I  am  Gordon  CarylFs  di 
vorced  wife.'' 

"  I  understand,"  France  says,  dreamily.     "  Go  on." 

11  Does  it  not  matter  to  you,  then  ?  "  madame  cries  still 
more  sharply.  "  Would  you  marry  a  divorced  man  ?  " 

"  No.     Go  on." 

There  is  a  moment's  silence.  It  is  evident  her  quietude 
puzzles  madame.  It  cannot  puzzle  her  any  more  than  it 
does  France  herself.  By  and  by,  she  feels  dimly,  she  will 
suffer  horribly.  Just  at  present  she  feels  in  the  hazy  trance 
of  the  lotus  eater,  listening  to  the  music  of  the  band,  looking 
at  the  sunshine  lying  in  broad,  golden  bands  on  the  carpet, 
inhaling  the  scent  of  the  jessamine.  To  the  day  of  her  death 
those  will  turn  her  sick  and  faint. 

"  Go  on,"  she  says  quite  gently,  unable  to  get  beyond  these 
two  words,  and  madame  incisively  goes  on. 

"  He  recognized  me  last  night,"  she  says,  her  voice  hard 
ening  as  she  sees  how  quietly  the  other  takes  it.  "  I  had 
recognized  him  long  before,  since  I  saw  his  picture  at  the 
Academy,  '  How  the  Night  Fell.'  Well— last  night  he  saw 
me,  and,  naturally,  knew  me  at  once.  I  have  not  changed 
much — so  they  tell  me." 

There  is  a  pause — madame  watching  her,  half  irritated  by 
her  profound  calm.  Miss  Forrester  watching  the  flickering 
bars  of  light  on  the  carpet. 

"Is  it  her  training,  or  is  it  want  of  feeling?"  the  actress 
wonders.  "  No,  1  think  not  that.  They  are  all  alike — these 
aristocrats — ready  to  stand  like  a  red  Indian  and  die  game. 


A   MORNING   CALL. 

I  fancy  his  slumbers  were  rather  disturbed  last  night,"  she 
goes  on,  with  a  hard  laugh ;  "he  looked  like  it  this  morning 
when  he  came  to  me." 

Miss  Forrester  lifts  her  eyes  from  the  carpet,  and  looks  at 
Felicia.  "  Why  did  he  go  to  you  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  Chiefly,  I  think,  because  he  wanted  to  make  certainty 
more  than  certain,  partly  because  he  knew  his  child — our 
child — was  with  me,  and  he  wanted  to  see  her." 

A  pang  that  is  like  a  red-hot  knife-thrust  goes  through 
France  Forrester's  heart.  Our  child  !  Yes,  this  woman  has 
been  his  wife,  is  the  mother  of  his  child.  She  gives  a  little 
gasp. 

"  You — you  let  him  see  her  ?  '' 

"  I  did  not  let  him  see  her — I  am  not  quite  a  fool.  As  I 
told  him  he  shall  see  her  one  day  to  his  cost.  She  is  mine, 
and  I  mean  to  keep  her.  His  name,  he  took  from  me — his 
child  he  cannot." 

There  is  silence  again.  The  pity  has  died  out  of  Felicia's 
face ;  it  is  hard,  and  bitter,  and  relentless  as  she  speaks 
again. 

"  All  the  evil  he  could  work  me  he  did.  I  loved  him  and 
he  left  me — he  cast  me  off  with  scorn  and  hatred.  I  swore 
revenge  ;  but  what  can  a  woman — even  a  bad  woman — do  ? 
Look,  here,  Miss  Forrester  !  "  Her  voice  rose  rapidly  and 
her  eyes  flashed.  "  In  marrying  me  he  fell  a  victim  to  a 
plot,  an  unscrupulous  plot,  I  don't  deny.  I  was  not  Major 
Lo veil's  daughter ;  I  was  no  fit  wife  for  such  as  he — I  was 
taken  from  the  lowest  concert-room  of  New  York  city.  When 
I  was  a  baby  I  was  thrown  upon  the  streets ;  I  had  to  make 
my  own  living,  and  earn  the  crusts  I  lived  on.  I  knew  no 
mother,  no  father,  no  God.  To  make  money — to  wear  fine 
clothes  anyhow — that  was  my  religion.  Lovell  came  and 
took  me,  and  Gordon  Caryll  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  me. 
He  asked  no  questions — he  married  me.  And  I  loved  him 
with  a  love  that  would  have  been  my  earthly  salvation,  if  he 
had  let  it.  I  was  true  to  him,  in  thought,  and  word,  and 
action  ;  I  would  have  given  my  life  for  him.  Then  Lovell 
died,  and  dying  told  his  story.  I  fled,  and  hid  myself  from 
Ins  first  fury ;  1  knew  he  would  take  my  life  if  we  met.  And 


A  MORNING   CALL.  365 

then,  months  after,  he  found  me  out,  and  spurned  me  as  he 
would  a  dog,  and  showed  me  the  decree  of  divorce,  and  left 
me  forever.  Miss  Forrester,  I  was  a  fool,  I  know,  but  I  fell 
down  there  on  the  sands  where  he  quitted  me  like  a  dead 
woman.  It  would  have  been  better  for  him  and  for  you  to 
day,"  with  another  reckless  laugh,  "  if  I  had  died.  But — here 
I  am." 

She  broke  off  abruptly.  In  the  dark  eyes  looking  at  her 
she  read  nothing  but  a  great  and  infinite  pity. 

"Poor  soul!"  France  said,  softly,  "you  loved  him,  and 
were  his  wife.  It  was  hard  on  you." 

Madame  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  have  survived  it,  you  see.  Men  die  and  worms  eat 
them,  but  not  for  love  !  That  night  my  baby  was  born. 
There  is  the  story.  You  have  heard  it  often  before,  no  doubt. 
He  is  divorced — I  cannot  stop  your  marriage.  Do  as  you 
will — only  I  had  to  come  and  tell  you  this." 

She  arose  as  she  spoke.  France  stood  up,  too,  and  drew 
a  step  nearer. 

"  Madame,"  she  softly  said,  wistful  wonder  in  her  eyes, 
"  do  you — do  you  love  him  yet  ?  " 

Once  more  madame  laughed. 

':  Love  !  Ma  foi  !  it  is  years  since  I  knew  what  the  word 
meant.  Only  fools  ever  love.  Not  I,  Miss  Forrester  !  1 
hate  him  as  I  do — well,  not  the  devil — for  I  have  no  reason 
to  hate  him.  No,  no  !  it  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  I  did  ; 
I  finished  with  all  that  forever  the  evening  we  parted  by  the 
Quebec  shore.  I  am  to  marry  the  Prince  Di  Venturini  in  a 
month  ;  but  marrying  and  loving — well,  they  are  different 
things" 

"  Does  he  know  of  this  ?  "  France  asked,  hardly  know 
ing  why  she  did  ask. 

"  M.  Di  Venturini  ?  Not  yet — not  at  all  if  I  can  help  it. 
And  I  don't  think  he  ever  will.  Mr.  Caryll  will  not  tell,  and 
I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  not." 

She  moved  to  the  door  ;  on  the* threshold  she  paused. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  for  coming  ?  "  she  demanded, 
abruptly. 


366  A  MORNING    CALL. 

"Angry?"  France  echoed,  wearily.  "Oh,  no  why 
should  I  be  ?  " 

Angry  !  No,  she  was  angry  with  no  one.  She  felt  tired 
and  sick,  and  worn  out — she  would  like  to  be  alone,  to 
darken  her  room  and  lie  down,  and  get  away  from  the  dis 
tracting  music  of  that  ceaseless  band,  from  the  dazzling  glare 
of  the  sunshine,  from  the  heavy  odor  of  the  flowers.  But, 
angry — no.  A  touch  of  pity  crossed  again  madame's  hard, 
insolent  beauty. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  she  said.  "  You  look  good  and 
gentle — you  deserve  to  be  happy.  Yes,  I  am  sorry  for 
you." 

And  then  she  had  left  the  room,  and  her  silks  were  rust 
ling  down  the  wide  stairway,  and  France  was  alone. 

Alone  !  She  leaned  her  folded  arms  on  the  table,  and  laid 
her  face  down  upon  them  and  drew  a  long,  tired  sigh.  It 
was  all  over ;  and  the  woman  was  gone,  and  out  of  France's 
life  all  the  happiness  was  forever  gone,  too. 

Gordon's  wife  !  How  strangely  it  sounded.  She  was  to 
have  been  that — she  never  could  be  now.  If  he  were  dead 
and  in  his  coffin,  she  could  not  be  one  whit  more  widowed 
than  she  was.  There  was  a  dull  sort  of  aching  at  her  heart 
— but  no  acute  pain.  She  wondered  at  her  own  torpor. 

The  band  was  striking  up  another  tune,  She  could  not 
endure  that.  She  arose  and  toiled  slowly  and  wearily  up  the 
stairs  to  her  own  room.  The  great  hotel  was  very  still.  She 
reached  her  chamber,  lowered  the  blinds,  threw  herself  face 
downward  on  the  bed. 

"  Gordon's  wife  !  Gordon's  wife  !  "  Over  and  over,  like 
some  refrain,  the  words  rang  in  her  ears.  Then  they  grew 
fainter  and  fainter — died  out  altogether  ;  md  in  the  midst  of 
her  great  trouble  France  fell  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"THE    PARTING   THAT  THEY   HAD." 

[HE  last  amber  glitter  of  the  sunset  was  gleaming 
through  the  closed  jalousies,  and  lying  in  broad 
yellow  bars  on  the  carpet,  when  France  awoke. 
Awoke  with  a  great  start,  suddenly,  and  broad 
awake,  her  horrible  trouble  flashing  upon  her  with  the  vivid 
ness  and  swiftness  of  lightning.  Gordon's  wife  was  alive  ; 
she  could  never  be  that ;  she  must  give  him  up  at  once  and 
forever.  Then  a  passionate  sense  of  desperation  and  misery 
seized  her. 

"  I  cannot  !  I  cannot !  "  she  cried  out,  clenching  her 
"hands  and  flinging  herself  face  downward  among  the  pillows. 
"  Oh,  I  cannot  give  him  up  !  " 

The  yellow  light  flickered,  faded,  grew  gray.  One  by  one 
the  golden  bars  aslant  the  carpet  slid  out  of  sight.  Ten 
minutes  more  and  the  closed  room  was  almost  dark.  And 
slowly  the  wild  tempest  of  hysterical  sobs  was  subsiding,  too 
violent  to  be  long-lived,  but  France  Forrester  did  not  move. 
Presently  it  died  away  altogether,  and  kneeling  by  the  bed 
side,  her  face  bowed  in  her  hands,  she  was  seeking  for 
strength  to  bear  her  bitter  sorrow  where  strength  alone  can 
be  found. 

"Thou  whose  life  was  all  trouble,"  France's  soul  cried, 
"  help  me  to  bear  this  ! " 

No  thought  had  ever  come  to  her  that  he  was  free — that 
legally  she  might  become  his  wife  to-morrow  in  all  honor 
before  the  world.  Her  French  mother  had  reared  her  in  a 
faith  which  teaches  that  divorce  is  impossible — a  faith  which 
holds  marriage  a  sacrament,  too  holy  to  be  broken  by  law  of 
man,  in  which,  "  until  death  doth  ye  part,"  is  meant  in  the 
fullest  an  1  most  awful  sense  of  the  words.  His  wife  lived 


368  "THE  PARTING    THAT  THEY  HAD." 

— his  wife,  although  she  were  Princess  Di  Venturini  within 
the  hour — and  she  and  Gordon,  even  as  friends,  must  meet 
no  more.  Friends  !  Ah,  no,  they  could  never  meet  as  that ; 
and  so  they  must  meet  just  once,  and  say  good-by  forever. 

She  got  up  at  last,  utterly  exhausted  in  body  and  mind. 
How  still  the  vast  hotel  was.  How  dark  the  room  had 
grown.  She  drew  up  the  blinds  in  a  sort  of  panic  and  let  in 
the  gray  light  of  evening.  It  was  almost  night.  Perhaps 
Gordon  had  come  and  was  waiting  for  her.  She  must  go  to 
him  at  once,  at  once. 

"Oh,  my  poor  dear,"  she  thought,  "you  have  borne  so 
much — could  you  not  have  been  spared  this  last,  bitterest 
blow  ?  " 

She  went  down  stairs  without  pause.  If  he  had  returned 
at  all,  he  would  be  in  the  salon ;  he  would  not  tell  his 
mother  until  he  had  told  her — that  she  felt.  She  never 
stopped  to  think  of  her  white  cheeks  and  swollen  eyes ;  he 
was  alone  and  in  trouble,  and  she  must  go  to  him. 

Yes,  he  had  come.  As  she  softly  pushed  the  door  open  she 
saw  him.  He  was  sitting  where  she  had  sat  three  hours  ago. 
Three  hours !  was  it  only  that  ?  Three  years  seemed  to 
have  passed  since  this  morning.  He  sat,  his  folded  arms  on 
the  table,  his  head  lying  on  them — his  whole  attitude  de 
spairing  and  broken  down. 

He  did  not  hear  her  as  she  entered  and  crossed  the  room, 
neither  heard  nor  saw,  until  she  laid  one  hand  lightly  on  his 
shoulder  and  spoke. 

"  Gordon ! " 

Then  he  looked  up.  To  her  dying  day  that  look  would 
haunt  her,  so  full  of  utter,  infinite  despair.  Those  haggard, 
hopeless  eyes  might  almost  have  told  her  the  story,  had 
Madame  Felicia  never  corne.  Haggard  and  hopeless  as  they 
were,  they  were  quick  even  in  this  supreme  hour  to  see  the 
change  in  her. 

"  You  have  been  crying  ?  "  he  said. 

In  all  the  months  they  had  been  together  he  had  never 
seen  the  trace  of  tears  on  France's  happy  face  before.  The 
sight  of  those  swollen  eyelids  and  tear-blotted  cheeks  struck 
him  now  as  with  a  sense  of  actual  physical  pain. 


"THE  PARTING    THAT  THEY  HAD."  369 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  "  '111  news  travels  apace,'  but 
I  hardly  think,"  with  a  harsh  sort  of  laugh,  "mine  can  have 
reached  you  already.  France,  my  own  love,  what  is  it  ?  " 

But  she  shrank  away,  drawing  her  hand  from  his  grasp,  and 
covering  her  eyes  with  the  other. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,  hush  !  "  she  cried  out ;  "  I  cannot  bear  it. 
I ,"  with  a  great  gasp,  "  I  know  all." 

"All!"  His  face  turned  of  a  dull,  grayish  pallor,  his 
eyes  never  left  her.  "  France,  do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying?  What  do  you  mean  by  all  ?" 

"  That — that "     No,  her  dry  lips  would  not  speak  the 

words.      "  Madame  Felicia  has  been  here,"  she  said,  with  a 
quick  desperate  gesture,  and  walked  away  tu  the  window. 

The  bright  street  below  was  dazzling  with  gas-lights — 
golden  stars  studded  the  violet  February  sky.  Carnages 
filled  with  brilliant  ladies  flew  ceaselessly  by — the  brilliant  life 
of  the  most  brilliant  capital  of  the  world  was  at  its  height. 
And  France  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  cool  glass  and 
wondered,  with  a  dull  sickness  of  heart,  if  only  this  time 
yesterday  she  had  indeed  been  happier  than  the  happiest  of 
them  all. 

Gordon  Caryll  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  stood  looking  at 
her,  actually  dumbfounded  by  her  last  words.  In  whatever 
way  she  might  have  heard  the  loathsome  truth,  he  had  never 
thought  of  this — that  she  would  have  the  untold  audacity  to 
force  an  entrance  here. 

"  France  ! "  he  exclaimed,  a  dark  flush  of  intense  anger 
crimsoning  his  face  ;  "  do  you  mean  what  you  say  ? — that 
woman  has  dared  come  here  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  wearily.  "Ah,  don't  be  angry,  Gordon. 
What  does  it  matter,  since  I  must  know  it  ? — what  difference 
who  tells  the  tale?  She  is  not  to  b^ame,  poor  soul,  for 
being  alive." 

"  Poor  soul ! "  he  repeats,  in  a  strange,  tense  tone.  "  Do 
you  mean  Felicia — that  utterly  vile  and  abandoned  creature  ? 
Is  it  possible  you  pity  her?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Gordon — more,  almost,  than  I  pity 
myself,  and  I  do  pity  myself,"  France  said,  with  a  wistful  sort 
of  pathos  in  her  voice.     *•  (  was  so  happy — so  happy  ! " 
16* 


370          "TffE  PARTING    THAT  THEY  HAD." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  silent — struggling,  it  seemed,  with 
his  own  rebellious  heart.  The  angry  glow  faded  from  hij 
face.  In  its  place  an  infinite  sadness  came. 

"  When  did  she  come  ?  Will  you  tell  me  what  she 
said?"  he  asked. 

"She  came  this  afternoon — about  three.  It  seems  like  a 
whole  lifetime  ago,  somehow,"  France  answered,  in  the  saine 
weary  way,  passing  her  hand  across  her  eyes  ;  "  and  she  told 
me  she  was  your — your  wife." 

And  then  suddenly  her  strength  breaks  down,  her  voice 
falters  and  fails,  and  she  clenches  her  hands  together,  and  is 
silent. 

"  She  is  no  wife  of  mine  ! "  he  says,  fiercely.  "  Years  ago 
the  law  freed  me  from  the  maddest  marriage  ever  madman 
made.  France,  why  should  we  sacrifice  the  happiness  of 
our  whole  lives  to  her  ?  Let  us  set  her  at  defiance.  She  is 
no  more  to  me — and  you  know  it — than  any  of  the  painted 
women  who  danced  with  her  last  night.  She  shall  not  part 
us.  She  shall  not  blight  your  life  as  she  has  mine.  France, 
I  cannot  give  you  up — don't  look  at  me  like  that — I  tell 
you  I  will  not  give  you  up.  You  shall  be  my  wife." 

She  made  no  struggle  as  he  held  her  hands.  She  stood 
and  looked  at  him,  in  grave  calm. 

"  Let  me  go,  Gordon  ! "  is  all  she  says,  and  with  a  sort  of 
groan,  he  obeys.  "  I  can  never  be  your  wife  now,  and  you 
know  it.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  sorry  for  myself,  sorrier  than 
I  can  say  ;  only  if  we  are  to  part  friends,  never  speak  to  me 
again  like  that." 

He  turned  from  her,  his  brows  knit,  his  lips  set. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  bitterly ;  "I  will  not  offend 
again.  It  is  easy  for  you,  no  doubt,  to  give  me  up  ;  I  was 
but  a  doubtful  prize  from  first  to  last — no  one  knows  it 
better  than  I  ;  but  you  see  it  is  not  quite  so  easy  for  me. 
I  have  grown  to  love  you,  in  the  mad  and  idiotic  way  in 
which  I  have  done  most  things  all  my  life ;  and  that  woman 
(whom  you  honor  with  your  pity,  by  the  way,)  has  made 
such  an  utter  failure  of  the  best  part  of  it,  that  now,  when 
hope  and  happiness  were  mine  once  more,  it  seems  lather 
hard  she  should  crop  up  to  make  an  end  of  it  alL  I  have 


"THE  PARTING    THAT  THEY  HAD."          ^\ 

earned  my  retribution  richly,  I  am  aware — all  the  same,  it 
is  bitter  to  bear." 

She  looked  down  at  him  with  eyes  of  sorrowful  wonder 
and  reproach.  Was  this  Gordon — her  hero,  her  "  man  of 
men  ?  " 

"  Easy  for  me ! "  she  repeated,  her  lips  quivering.  "  You 
were  but  a  '  doubtful  prize '  from  the  first !  Ah,  I  have 
not  deserved  that.  I  don't  know  whether  hearts  break — 
I  suppose  not,  but  I  feel  as  if  mine  were  breaking  to 
night.  See,  Gordon  !  I  love  you  so  dearly — so  greatly, 
that  there  is  nothing  on  earth  I  would  not  do  for  you,  suffer 
for  you,  only — commit  a  crime.  And  to  marry  a  man  whose 
divorced  wife  lives,  is  to  my  mind  one  of  the  blackest,  most 
heinous  crimes  any  woman  can  commit.  All  my  life  I  will 
love  you — I  could  not  help  that  if  I  would — all  my  life  I 
will  be  true  to  you,  all  my  life  I  will  pray  for  you.  Only 
don't  say  bitter  and  cynical  things  any  more — it  is  hard 
enough  to  bear  without  that." 

Her  words,  her  tone,  touch  him  strangely  and  tenderly. 
The  anger,  the  fierce  temptation — each  dies  out,  never  to 
return.  There  is  even  the  shadow  of  a  smile  on  his  lips  as 
he  looks  up. 

"  '  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more  ! '  " 

he  murmurs.  "  Forgive  me,  France  ;  you  are  right,  as  you 
always  are — you  are  all  that  is  brave,  and  noble,  and 
womanly.  Only — that  does  not  make  the  losing  you  any 
the  easier." 

And  then  there  is  silence,  and  both  look  out  at  the  gaslit 
panorama  below,  while  the  heavy  minutes  pass.  So  long 
the  silence  lasts,  that  France  grows  frightened,  and  breaks 
it  with  an  effort. 

"  You  knew  her  last  night  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  At  once,"  he  answers,  in  a  dull,  slow  way ;  "  the  very 
moment  she  appeared.  France,  do  you  recollect  the  night 
of  Lady  Dynely's  ball  last  autumn  ?  I  saw  her  portrait  that 
night — the  vignette,  you  remember,  on  Di  Venturini'? 
waltzes ;  and  I  recognized  the  face.  But  I  would  not  be- 


372  "TffE  PARTING    THAT  THEY  HAD." 

lieve  it — it  seemed  too  horrible  to  be  true.  It  was  some 
one  who  resembled  her,  I  said  to  myself — a  relation,  per 
haps  ;  but  she  was  dead — dead  beyond  doubt.  It  is  easy  to 
believe  what  we  wish  to  believe.  I  never  thought  of  her 
again  until  she  stood  before  me  on  the  stage." 

"I  knew  by  your  face  something  had  happened,"  France 
says,  softly,  "  but  I  never  dreamed  of  that." 

"  How  could  you  ?  Oh,  my  poor  child,  it  is  not  alone 
that  she  spoils  my  life,  but  to  think  she  should  have  power 
to  spoil  yours  !  To  think  that  you  should  suffer  for  my  sins 
at  this  late  day." 

"  We  all  suffer  for  the  sins  of  others,"  France  says,  and 
somehow  says  it  bravely.  "  We  might  all  safely  take  the 
battle-cry  of 'the  strong  old  Crusaders  for  our  staff  of  strength, 
'  God  Wills  It:  It  is  inevitable— don't  let  us  talk  of  it— 
since  it  is  no  longer  a  question  of  talking,  but  endurance. 
You  saw  her  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  did.  I  wished  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  as  they 
say,  before  I  came  to  you.  For  I  knew  what  you  would  say 
• — that  the  decree  of  divorce,  which  freed  me  seventeen  years 
ago,  would  be  no  freedom  in  your  eyes.  And,  my  darling, 
the  thought  of  losing  you  was,  and  is,  more  bitter  than  the 
bitterness  of  death." 

"  Don't !  "  she  says,  with  a  gasp,  "  don't !  don't !  " 

"  I  saw  her,"  he  went  on,  "  and  I  knew  all  hope  was  at 
an  end.  The  girl  I  had  married  seventeen  years  ago  in 
Canada  was  before  me — Madame  Felicia.  I  lingered  but  a 
few  moments — it  was  her  hour  of  vengeance,  and  I  think 
even  she  was  satisfied.  And  the  child  is  with  her — did  she 
tell  you  that  ?  " 

"  Yes — she  told  me.  Oh,  Gordon  !  if  she  would  but  give 
her  up." 

"  She  shall  give  her  up,"  Gordon  Caryll  said,  his  mouth 
setting  hard  and  tense  beneath  his  beard ;  "  if  not  by  fair 
means,  then  by  foul.  She  is  no  fit  guardian  for  any  young 
girl.  Terry  Dennison  will  help  me  here ;  and,  one  way  or 
other,  my  daughter  shall  come  into  my  keeping." 

"  Terry  ?  "  Miss  Forrester  said,  in  surprise. 

As  briefly  as  possible  Caryll  narrated  the  odd  manner  in 


"THE  PARTING    THAT   THEY  HAD:  373 

which  Terry  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing  the  girl  to 
her  mother. 

"  Dennison  can  keep  a  secret — I  know  no  man  I  would 
trust  as  I  do  him.  You  will  not  mind  my  telling  him  all, 
France?  All?" 

"No,"  she  answered;  "you  may  tell  Terry,  but — no* 
Eric." 

"Eric!"  Caryll  repeated  contemptuously;  "Eric  is  a 
fool !  And  my  mother  must  know." 

"  Your  mother,  of  course.  Ah,  poor  grandmamma  !  it 
will  be  a  blow  to  her." 

He  caught  at  her  words. 

"  Must  I  really  go,  France — really  and  truly — and  leave 
you  and  my  mother  alone  ?  " 

"  Gordon,  you  know  you  must." 

"  I  don't  know  it,"  he  said,  recklessly  ;  '•  if  you  cannot  be 
my  wife,  at  least  we  can  be  friends,  and  together — " 

"We  can  never  be  together.  You  can  do  as  you  please,'' 
her  head  drooping,  her  voice  faltering  ;  "  it  is  your  place  to 
stay  with  your  mother,  of  course.  I  will  ask  Lady  Dynely 
to  take  me  back  to  England  at  once." 

"  Stay,  France  ! "  he  said,  rising  hastily.  "  Forgive  me 
once  more.  No,  I  will  go — it  will  be  best  so ;  and  immedi 
ately — to-morrow." 

Then  again  silence  fell,  and  both  stood  apart,  neither  able 
to  speak  the  words  that  must  come  next.  In  five  minutes 
they  must  say  good-by  and  forever. 

A  carriage  whirled  up  before  the  hotel.  The  door  opened, 
and  Eric,  looking  unutterably  bored  by  his  day's  "  on  duty," 
got  out  and  assisted  his  wife  and  mother  to  alight. 

"  Here  they  are,"  Caryll  exclaimed,  starting  back.  "  I 
cannot  meet  them,  any  of  them.  Make  my  adieux  to  Lucia 
to-morrow ;  tell  her,  if  you  like,  I  shall  not  see  her  again. 
France — " 

And  then  he  was  clasping  both  her  hands  hard,  and  look 
ing  in  her  face  with  that  straining  gaze  we  look  on  the  face 
we  love  best  the  instant  before  the  coffin-lid  is  si  ait  down. 

"Oh,  Gordon  !"  she  cried  out,  "where  will  you  go?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  care — what  does  it  maUcr  ?" 


374          "  THE  PARTING    THAT  THEY  HAD" 

"  You  will  write  to — to  your  mother  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  I  will  write.  I  will  see  her  now  and  say  good-by, 
I  will  see  Dennison,  too,  before  I  leave  Paris.  Oh,  my 
France  !  my  France  !  how  can  I  give  you  up  ! " 

There  were  footsteps  and  voices  in  the  hall — on  the  stairs. 
One  moment  and  the  Dynelys  would  be  upon  them. 

"  Good-by,  France  !  good-by  !  good-by  ! " 

And  then  he  was  gone.  And  France,  breathless,  and  white, 
had  fallen  upon  the  sofa,  feeling  as  though  the  whole  world 
had  come  to  an  end. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"IF   ANY    CALM,    A  CALM   DESPAIR." 

Fthey  would  not  come  in,  if  she  could  be  alone — that 
seemed  the  only  thought  of  which  France  was  con 
scious,  as  she  lay  there,  utterly  unable  for  the  time 
being  to  speak  or  move,  knowing,  in  a  dazed  sort 
of  way,  what  a  ghastly  face  the  wax-lights  would  show  them. 
Oh,  to  be  alone — to  be  alone  ! 

She  had  her  wish.  A  swish  of  silk,  a  flutter  of  perfume, 
the  saloon  door  flung  wide,  and  Lady  Dynely's  voice  saying, 
impatiently  : 

"All  darkness,  and  coldness,  and  solitude.  Where  can 
they  be  ?  where  is  France  ?  " 

"  With  Mrs.  Caryll,  mamma,"  Crystal's  soft  voice  suggests. 
"  It  looks  dreary — that  great,  gilded  saloon ;  let  us  go  up 
to  your  boudoir." 

So  they  go,  and  France  feels  as  though  she  had  escaped 
some  great  danger.  She  rises,  feeling  stiff  and  strange,  and 
gropes  her  way  out  through  the  darkness,  and  up  to  her  own 
room.  She  has  to  pass  Mrs.  Caryll' s  door;  she  pauses  a 
moment,  while  a  passionate  longing  to  enter  there,  at  all 
risks,  to  look  on  his  face  once  more,  even  to  bid  him  stay, 
seizes  her.  Her  wedding  day  is  so  near — oh,  so  near — and 
they  have  been  so  infinitely  happy  together.  What  right 
has  that  wicked,  dancing,  painted  woman  to  come  and  tear 
them  apart  ?  For  a  moment  she  listens  to  the  tempter, 
then  she  clasps  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  rushes  up  to 
her  room.  Lights  are  burning  here ;  she  locks  the  door,  and 
throws  herself  on  the  bed,  there  to  lie  motionless,  sleepless, 
all  the  long  night  through. 

The  Dynelys  dine  alone.  No  one  can  tell,  it  seems, 
what  has  become  of  the  Carylls  and  Miss  Forrester.  Mrs. 


376  ,        "IF  A^y  CALM,   A    CALM  DESPAIR." 

Caryll's  room  is  forbidden — her  mistress  is  ill  to-night,  the 
maid  gravely  tells  Lady  Dynely.  Even  she  cannot  be  ad 
mitted.  Miss  Forrester's  door  is  locked,  and  Miss  Forrester 
may  be  deaf  or  dead  for  all  the  attention  she  pays  to  knocks 
or  calls.  It  is  really  very  odd,  and  Lady  Dynely  wonders 
about  it,  all  through  the  rather  dull  family  dinner,  to  her 
son  and  daughter. 

Rather  dull  !  It  is  horribly  dull  to  Eric.  He  forfeits  a 
banquet  at  France tti's  this  evening,  with  half  a  dozen  conge 
nial  spirits,  for  this  "  bosom-of-his-family  "  sort  of  thing,  and 
worse  still,  forfeits  his  stall  at  the  Varietes,  to  do  escort  duty 
for  his  harem,  to  the  Opera  aux  Italians.  But  since  he  is 
in  for  it,  he  does  it  with  tolerably  good  grace,  and  Crystal's 
wan,  moonlight  little  face  lights,  and  smiles  come  to  the  pale 
lips.  She  says  little,  but  she  is  happy.  Eric  has  been  hei 
very  own  all  day — will  be  her  very  own  until  noon  to 
morrow.  Beyond  that  she  does  not  look — "  unto  the  day, 
the  day." 

Dinner  ends,  and  they  go  to  the  opera.  Patti  sings,  and 
the  grand  opera  house  is  brilliant  with  ladies  in  marvellous 
toilettes.  If  France  were  only  here,  Eric  thinks,  as  he 
struggles  manfully  with  his  tenth  yawn,  it  would  not  be  so 
bad,  but  a  man  cast  over  wholly  to  the  tender  mercies  of  his 
mother  and  his  wife,  is  an  object  of  compassion  to  gods  and 
men. 

About  the  time  the  Dynely  party  take  their  places  in  their 
private  box  on  the  grand  tier,  Gordon  Caryll  opens  the  door 
of  his  mother's  room,  and  passes  out. 

He  goes  up  to  his  room,  where  his  valet  awaits  him,  and 
gives  his  few  orders.  A  portmanteau  is  to  be  packed  at 
once — he  (the  valet)  is  to  follow  with  the  rest  to  Liverpool, 
before  the  end  of  the  week.  That  is  all — and  the  man 
listens  with  an  immovable,  wooden  face,  outwardly,  in  direst, 
blankest  wonder  within. 

"  Blessed,"  he  says,  as  his  master  departs,  "  if  this  here 
ain't  a  rum  go!  I  thought  we  was  going  to.be  married, 
at  the  British  Hembassy  ;  and  now  we're  up  and  hoff  'ot 
foot,  with  all  our  luggage,  hover  to  Liverpool.  I  wonder 
where  we  go  hafter  that  ?  " 


"7F  ANY  CALM,   A    CALM  DESPAIR."          377 

"We"  were  going  to  America  once  again — to  California — 
Nevada — Oregon — all  the  wild,  new  lands,  whither  "  we  "  had 
never  set  foot  yet.  .Not  to  forget — that  could  never  be  ! 
But  life,  it  seemed,  amid  perpetual  hardship  and  adventure, 
amid  wild  regions  and  wilder  men,  would  be  more  easily 
dragged  out  without  hope  than  elsewhere. 

He  had  told  his  mother  ;  and  she  had  listened  in  such 
wonder,  such  pain,  such  pity,  as  words  cannot  tell.  She 
had  set  her  heart  on  this  match,  and  it  was  never  to  be. 
Her  whole  happiness  in  life  was  wrapped  up  in  her  son, 
and  he  was  to  be  taken  from  her.  He  must  go — since  this 
woman  stood  between  him  and  France  forever,  better,  far 
better,  they  should  part. 

"  I  would  rather  go,"  he  had  said  ;  "  not  to  forget,  not  to 
suffer  less — I  do  not  hope  that,  I  do  not  even  wish  it ;  but 
I  cannot  stay  and  face  the  wonder,  the  scandal,  that  will 
ensue.  I  am  a  coward,  if  you  like,  but  I  underwent  the 
ordeal  once,  and — "  he  set  his  teeth  hard  and  stopped. 

"  Yet,  I  will  stay  if  you  wish,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "I  will  stay  with  you,  and,"  another  pause,  "she 
can  return  to  England  with  Lucia  Dynely." 

But  the  mother,  whose  life  was  bound  up  in  him,  clasped 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  answered  : 

"  You  must  go,  Gordon.  France  is  right — she  can  never 
be  your  wife,  while  that  woman  lives,  and  so  parting  is  best 
for  you  both.  You  must  go,  and  may  Heaven's  blessing  be 
with  you." 

And  then  there  had  been  a  parting,  so  sad,  so  solemn, 
last  words  so  sweet,  so  motherly,  a  parting  prayer  so  earnest, 
so  holy,  that  the  fierce  wrath  and  hot  rebellion  had  died 
out,  and  somehow  cairn  had  come.  He  had  left  the  hotel, 
very  pale,  very  grave,  a  great  sadness  on  his  face,  but  other 
wise  unchanged. 

He  must  see  Dennison  before  he  left.  He  went  to  the 
Louvre  and  found  him,  providentially,  lounging  aimlessly 
pbout,  and  looking  bored. 

"  De  do,  Caryll,"  Terry  began,  abbreviating  the  formula, 
and  swallowing  a  gap'e.  "  Awfully  slow  work  this.  Haven't 
seen  a  face  I  know  since  noon.  Was  at  your  place,  and 


378          "IF  ANY  CALM,   A    CALM  DESPATR" 

found  the  family  invisible — dead  or  sleeping.  Eric  is  doing 
the  rtile  of  Master  Tommy  Goodchild — trotting  out  the 
madre  and  Crystal,  and  making  a  martyr  of  himself,  I  know. 
But  I  say,  old  boy,  anything  wrong,  you  know  ?  On  my  life, 
now  I  look  again,  you  seem  awfully  seedy." 

"  We  can  talk  in  the  street,  I  suppose  ?  "  Caryll  answers, 
abruptly,  and  taking  his  arm.  "  I  have  something  of  im 
portance  to  say  to  you.  Come  this  way.  Dennison,  I'm 
off  to-morrow !  " 

"  Off?"  Terry  repeats  the  word  and  stares. 

"  Off  for  good  and  all — to  return  no  more — to  the  other 
end  of  the  world.  It's  all  up  between  me  and — Terry,  can't 
you  guess  ?  I  thought  you  did  last  night.  Madame  Felicia 
is  my  divorced  wife." 

There  is  a  pause,  a  speechless,  breathless  pause.  Mr. 
Dennison  looks  at  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sky,  the  streets, 
the  gaslights,  the  people,  and  all  spin  round.  At  last,  "  By 
Jove  !  "  he  breathes,  and  is  still. 

Caryll  does  not  speak — his  mouth  is  set  rigid  and  hard 
behind  his  beard.  They  walk  on,  and  the  silence  grows 
uncomfortable.  Terry  in  desperation  breaks  it  first. 

"  I  thought  she  was  dead,"  is  what  he  says. 

"  So  did  I,"  Caryll  answers  ;  "  so  did  they  in  Canada,  so 
the  papers  said.  She  is  not,  however.  Madame  Felicia 
seventeen  years  ago  was  my  wife ;  the  girl  you  rescued  on 
the  streets  two  nights  ago  my  daughter." 

"  Little  Black  Eyes  !     By  Jove  !  "  Terry  aspirates  again. 

"  I  fancied  you  must  have  suspected  something  of  this 
since  last  night.  I  recognized  her  at  the  theatre.  I  visited 
her  this  morning.  There  is  not  a  shadow  of  doubt.  The 
dancer,  Felicia,  is  my  divorced  wife." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  once  again  is  all  Terry  can  say,  in  his  blank 
amaze.  "  And  France  ?"  he  asks,  after  a  pause. 

"  All  is  at  an  end  there.  In  France's  creed  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  divorce.  I  am  as  much  the  husband  of  Felicia 
as  though  that  divorce  had  never  been." 

There  is  another  uncomfortable  silence.  What  is  Terry 
to  say  ?  Fluency  and  tact  are  at  no  time  his.  But  silence 
is  better  than  speech  just  now. 


"IF  ANY  CALM,   A    CALM  DESPAIR." 

"  So  I  am  going  away,"  Caryll  resumes,  steadily  ;  "  and  I 
leave  my  mother  and  France  in  your  charge,  Dennison.  1 
go  to-morrow.  When  does  your  leave  expire  ?  " 

"  In  a  fortnight." 

"There  will  be  ample  time,  then.  My  mother  proposes 
returning  to  Caryllynne ;  you  will  escort  her  thither.  For 
the  rest,  Lady  Dynely  will  be  told  the  truth,  but  no  one  else 
— least  of  all,  Eric.  There  will  be  no  end  of  conjecture, 
and  gossip,  and  mystification,  no  doubt,  but  since  none  of 
us  will  be  here  to  hear  it,  it  won't  greatly  matter." 

"  But,"  Terry  hazards,  " will  she  keep  the  secret?  They 
say  women  never  can,  you  know  ?  " 

A  cold  smile  lights  Gordon  Caryll' s  lips. 

"Trust  them  when  it  is  to  their  own  interest.  Felicia 
has  fooled  M.  Di  Venturini  into  offering  to  make  her  his  wife. 
The  wedding,  I  am  told,  is  to  take  place  soon.  He  has  no 
idea  that  she  has  ever  been  married — she  has  lied  to  him 
from  first  to  last.  It  is  her  interest  to  hold  her  tongue,  and 
now  that  her  revenge  is  satisfied  she  will." 

"  It's  a  deuced  bad  business,  Caryll,  old  fellow,"  Terry  says, 
gloomily.  "  I'm  awfully  sorry.  Confound  the  woman  !  she 
seems  born  to  work  mischief  and  deviltry  to  every  man  she 
meets." 

"Another  thing,  Dennison,"  Caryll  pursues,  taking  no 
heed  ;  "  what  I  principally  wished  to  speak  to  you  about, 
is  my  daughter.  By  fair  means  or  foul,  she  must  be  taken 
from  her  mother  and  given  to  me.  And,  Terry,  for  this  I 
look  to  you." 

"  To  me  ?  "  Terry  repeats,  blankly  ;  "  but  how  ?  I  can't 
go  to  Felicia  and  demand  her,  I  can't  watch  my  chance  and 
steal  her  away.  Hang  it,  no  !  She's  a  female  fiend,  and  I 
owe  her  no  good  turn,  but  still  she  is  the  girl's  mother,  and 
as  such  has  a  right  to  her.  I  suppose  she  is  fond  of  her?  " 

"She  is  not.  Felicia  never  was  fond  of  any  human  being 
but  herself.  She  would  send  the  girl  adrift  to-morrow,  only 
it  adds  to  her  revenge  to  retain  her.  She  will  not  treat  her 
kindly,  of  that  I  am  sure ;  and  before  the  week  ends  the 
poor  child  will  need  but  the  offer  to  fly.  My  mother  will 
gladly  receive  and  care  for  her.  Terry,  you  must  see  her  for 


380          "IF  ANY   CALM,   A    CALM  DESPAIR" 

me.  Let  her  know  the  truth.  You  have  been  of  service  to 
her  and  she  will  trust  you,  Explain  everything ;  tell  her  a 
better  home  and  kinder  relatives  than  she  has  ever  known 
await  her.  She  will  go  with  you  of  her  own  free  will — take 
my  word  for  that." 

11  Well,  I'll  try.  I'll  do  my  best,"  Terry  said.  "  Hang  it, 
Gary  11 !  there's  nothing  I  wouldrit  do  for  you  and  France.  I 
suppose  they — your  mother  and  Miss  Forrester — are  awfully 
cut  up." 

"  Naturally.  Don't  speak  of  it,  Terry.  I  know  I  can 
trust  you  ;  and  if  anything  could  help  me  now,  it  would  be 
that  knowledge.  There  is  no  more  to  be  said,  I  believe. 
Look  after  the  mother  and  France — get  the  child  away 
from  Felicia — make  Eric  leave  Paris  for  his  wife  and  moth 
er's  sake  if  you  can.  A  multiplicity  of  tasks,  dear  boy,  and 
the  last  the  hardest  by  far ;  but  I  know  it  will  be  no  fault  of 
yours  if  you  fail.  I  will  bid  you  good-by  and  good  speed 
here." 

They  clasped  hands  hard  in  silence,  then,  without  one 
word  more,  parted,  and  each  went  his  own  way.  Terry  lit  a 
cigar,  and  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  made  his  way 
gloomily  back  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre. 

"  And  if  ever  the  fiend  incarnate  came  on  earth  to  work 
mischief  in  human  shape,"  Mr.  Dennison  inwardly  growls, 
"he  has  come  in  the  form  of  Felicia  the  dancer.  Devil 
take  her !  is  there  no  end  to  the  trouble  she  is  destined  to 
make?" 

Next  morning,  Lady  Dynely,  to  her  surprise  and  annoy 
ance,  finds  herself  breakfasting  alone.  Neither  Gordon 
Caryll  nor  France  Forrester  is  to  be  seen  when  she  enters. 
She  waits  half  an  hour — still  they  fail  to  put  in  an  appearance. 
Lady  Dynely  hates  solitary  breakfasts,  and  rather  pettishly 
rings  the  bell. 

"  It's  very  odd,"  she  thinks  annoyedly  ;  "  all  day  yesterday, 
and  now  again  this  morning,  neither  Gordon  nor  France  is 
to  be  seen.  And  both  are  such  preposterously  early  risers." 

Her  own  maid  answers  the  summons,  and  her  ladyship 
impatiently  sends  her  in  quest  of  the  truants.  Ten  minutes, 
and  Simpson  returns. 


"IF  ANY  CALM,   A    CALM  DESPAIR."  381 

"  Miss  Forrester  has  not  yet  left  her  room.  She  is  suffer 
ing  from  headache,  and  begs  my  lady  to  excuse  her  until 
luncheon.  For  Mr.  Caryll — Mr.  Caryll,  my  lady,  has  gone.' 

"  Gone  !  "  my  lady  repeats  with  a  blank  stare. 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  Norton,  his  man,  received  his  orders  last 
night  to  pack  up  and  follo\v  him  at  once  to  England.  Mr. 
Caryll  left  the  hotel  himself  late  last  evening,  and  has  not 
since  returned." 

Lady  Dynely  listens  to  this  in  dazed  incredulity.  France 
ill ! — Gordon  gone  !  Now  what  does  this  mean  ?  Her  first 
impulse  is  to  go  to  Mrs.  Caryll  and  inquire,  her  second  to 
eat  her  breakfast  and  wait  quietly,  until  she  is  told.  She 
acted  on  the  second,  ordered  in  breakfast,  and  sipped  her 
chocolate  as  best  she  might  for  the  devouring  curiosity  that 
possessed  her. 

An  hour  later,  and  Miss  Forrester  came  down.  The 
dainty  morning  toilet  was  as  fresh  and  unexceptionable  as 
ever,  the  pretty  rich  brown  hair  as  perfectly  coiffed.  But 
out  of  the  dark  bright  face  all  the  color  was  stricken,  out  of 
the  clear  brown  eyes  all  the  youthful  gladness,  all  the  loving, 
happy  light.  She  went  to  Mrs.  Gary  11' s  room.  The  eldei 
lady  sat  in  her  easy-chair,  dressed  for  the  day,  waiting  in  an 
anguish  of  suspense.  As  France  came  in  she  opened  her 
arms,  and  without  a  word  the  girl  went  in  to  them,  and  laid 
her  pale  face  on  the  motherly  bosom  with  a  great,  tearless 
sob. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  ! " 

She  held  her  to  her,  and  there  was  silence.  The  eyes 
of  Gordon  Caryll's  mother  were  full  of  pitying  tears,  but  the 
eyes  of  France  were  dry  and  burning. 

"  I  sent  him  away — from  you  who  love  him  so  dearly. 
Oh,  mother,  forgive  me.  I  did  it  for  the  best." 

She  says  it  in  a  choked  whisper,  lifting  her  face  for  a  mo 
ment.  Then  again  it  falls  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  It  was  like  death,  it  was  worse  than  death,  but  I  toli  him 
to  go,"  she  says,  again,  in  that  husky  undertone. 

"My  dearest,"  Mrs.  Caryll  answers,  "you  did  right. 
Dearly  as  I  love  him,  precious  as  your  happiness  is  to  me,  I 
would  rather  part  with  him  forever,  rather  see  you  as  I  see 


382  "IF  ANY  CALM,   A    CALM  DESPAIR" 

you  now,  than  let  you  be  his  wife  while  that  woman  lives.  H 
believe  as  you  believe.  No  law  of  man  can  alter  the  law  o5 
God.  If  she  was  his  wife  seventeen  years  ago — my  child, 
how  you  shiver  !  are  you  cold  ? — she  is  his  wife  still.  It  is 
right  and  just  that  he  should  have  put  her  away — that  I  be 
lieve  ;  knowing  her  to  be  alive  now,  it  is  right  and  just  also 
that  you  should  have  sent  him  from  you.  But,  oh,  my  dear, 
my  dear,  it  is  hard  on  you — it  is  very  hard  on  him." 

"  Don't,"  France  says.  "  Oh,  mother,  not  yet !  I  can't 
bear  it.  This  day  fortnight  was  to  have  been  our  wedding- 
day,  and  now — " 

She  breaks  down  all  in  a  moment,  and  the  tears  come — a 
passionate  rain  of  tears.  The  mother  holds  her  almost  in 
silence,  and  so  on  her  bosom  lets  her  weep  her  anguish  out. 

She  is  crying  herself,  but  quietly.  Great  self-control  has 
always  been  hers — is  hers  still.  To  part  with  her  lately- 
found  son  has  been  like  the  rending  of  soul  and  body — more 
bitter  than  the  bitterness  of  death  ;  but  she  has  learned,  in 
weary  years  of  penitence  and  waiting,  the  great  lesson  of 
life — endurance.  So  she  comforts  France  now,  in  a  tender, 
motherly  fashion,  and  France  listens,  as  she  could  listen  to 
no  one  on  earth,  this  morning,  but  Gordon's  mother. 

"  It  is  not  for  myself,"  she  says  at  last,  after  her  old,  im 
petuous  fashion,  "  it  is  for  him.  He  has  suffered  so  much, 
atoned  so  bitterly  in  exile,  and  loneliness,  and  poverty,  all 
the  best  years  of  his  life  for  that  mad  marriage  of  his  youth, 
and  now,  when  I  would  have  made  him  so  happy,  when  he 
was  happy,  in  one  instant  everything  is  swept  from  him — 
home,  mother,  wife — and  he  must  go  out  into  exile  once 
more.  Oh,  mother !  help  me  to  bear  it !  It  breaks  my 
heart ! " 

The  wild  sobs  break  forth  again.  The  mother's  heart 
echoesevery  word.  It  is  retribution,  perhapsjnstice — none  the 
less  it  is  very  bitter.  They  both  think  of  him,  leaving  all 
things,  and  going  back  to  outlawry  and  wretchedness  ;  they 
think  of  her  in  her  insolent,  glowing  beauty  and  prosperity, 
the  world  going  so  well  with  her,  glorying  in  her  vengeance, 
and  it  requires  all  the  Christianity  within  them  to  refrain  from 
hating  her. 


"IF  ANY   CALM,   A    CALM  DESPAIR."          383 

But  presently  the  storm  of  grief  ends,  and  sitting  on  a 
low  hassock,  her  head  bowed  on  Mrs.  Caryli's  knee,  France 
listens  to  her  sad  plans  for  the  future — so  different,  oh,  so  dif 
ferent  from  all  the  girl's  bright  hopes  of  but  a  dtfy  before. 

"We  will  return  to  England,  France,"  Mrs.  Caryll  says, 
gravely;  "to  Caryllynne.  It  has  been  deserted  long 
enough.  There  we  will  live  quietly  together,  and  hope,  and 
pray,  and  wait — " 

"Wait,"  France  repeats  with  mournful  bitterness.  "What 
is  there  to  wait  for  now  ?  " 

What,  indeed  !  Both  are  silent.  Unless  this  fatal  woman 
dies — and  in  her  rich  and  perfect  health  she  is  likely  to  out 
live  them  all — what  can  her  son  ever  have  to  hope  for  in  this 
lower  world  ?  For  France — well,  as  the  years  go  on,  the 
elder  woman  thinks  happiness  may  return  to  her.  She  is  so 
young,  there  may  be  hope  for  her — for  him,  none. 

"  Would  you  rather  we  went  to  Rome  ?  "  she  asks,  after  a 
pause. 

"  No,"  France  says.  "  Let  us  return  to  Caryllynne.  It 
was  his  home  ;  I  shall  be  less  wretched  there  than  anywhere 
else  on  earth." 

So  it  is  agreed. 

"  Terry  will  take  us,"  Mrs.  Caryll  says.  "  Terry  knows 
all.  And  Lucia  must  be  told,  my  dear — it  is  impossible  to 
keep  the  truth  from  her." 

"Yes,  tell  her,"  Miss  Forrester  assents,  wearily;  "the 
sooner  the  better.  And  ask  her  to  spare  me — to  say 
nothing  of  altered  looks,  or  of — him.  I  will  return  to  my 
room,  and  you  had  best  send  for  her  at  once.  She  was 
speaking  of  taking  Crystal  to  Versailles — let  her  know  all, 
and  make  an  end  of  it  before  she  goes." 

Then  France  toils  spiritlessly,  cold  and  white,  and 
wretched  looking,  back  to  her  room,  and  Lady  Dynely  is 
sent  for,  and  the  miserable  sequel  to  Gordon  Caryli's  early 
marriage  is  told  her,  as  she  sits  surprised  and  compassionate, 

beside  Gordon  Caryli's  most  unhappy  mother. 

*          ******          *          * 

"Where  is  he  now?"  is  France's  thought,  as  she  sits 
wearily  down,  and  lays  her  head  on  the  table,  as  though  she 


2 84          "  IF  ANY  CALM,   A   CALM  DESPAIR." 

never  cared  to  lift  it  again.  He  is  whirling  along  in  a 
French  express  train — Calais-ward.  To-night  he  will  cross 
the  channel ;  by  the  first  Cunarder  that  quits  Liverpool  he 
will  sail  fof  New  York,  and  so  begins  the  second  exile  to 
which  his  fatal  wife  has  driven  him. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

M.    LE    PRINCE. 

QUIET  street  near  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  The  hour, 
ten  in  the  evening.  Almost  absolute  solitude 
reigning — only  at  long  intervals  the  footsteps  of  some 
passer-by  awakening  the  echoes.  Dim  and  afar  off 
as  it  seems,  the  turmoil  of  the  great  city  coming  mellowed 
and  subdued. 

One  house,  large,  unlighted,  gloomy,  standing  in  a  paved 
quadrangle,  has  had  a  constant  stream  of  visitors  for  the  past 
two  hours.  They  are  all  men — men  who  have  a  stealthy 
and  furtive  look,  who  pass  on  rapidly,  who  give  a  counter 
sign  to  a  waiting  servant  at  the  gate,  who  do  not  spend  more 
than  fifteen  minutes  within  those  gloomy  precincts,  who  flit 
away  and  disappear,  only  to  have  others  take  their  places. 
So  it  has  been  for  the  past  two  hours,  so  it  is  likely  to  be 
until  perhaps  midnight. 

This  house  is  the  property  of  his  Excellency  Prince  Di  Ven 
turini ;  and  M.  Di  Venturini  is  the  leader  and  moving  spirit 
of  a  secret  political  society.  For  upward  of  two  months  he 
has  been  absent  on  a  mission  of  grave  import ;  this  is  the 
evening  of  his  return,  and  the  members  of  the  society — Ital 
ians  all — have  been  summoned  to  their  headquarters  to  re 
port  progress  to  their  leader. 

Outside  the  gloomy  and  secluded  mansion  is  wrapped  in 
profound  darkness ;  inside,  halls  and  passages  are  dimly  lit 
— one  room  only,  that  in  which  M.  Di  Venturini  sits,  being 
brightly  illuminated. 

He  sits  at  a  table  strewn  with  papers,  letters,  pamphlets — 
small,  spare,  yellow,  with  black,  glancing  eyes,  sharp  as  stil 
ettos,  and  thin,  compressed  lips.     One  by  one,  his  followers 
11 


386  M.    LE  PRINCE. 

come  and  go ;  one  by  one,  their  reports  are  noted  down  and 
docketed. 

With  sharp,  quick  precision  he  conducts  each  interview, 
with  imperious  command  he  gives  his  orders,  with  scant  cer 
emony  he  dismisses  each  man  of  them  all.  Business  of  a 
still  more  private  and  delicate  nature  awaits  his  attention- 
business  purely  personal  to  M.  le  Prince — and  he  rather 
cuts  short  the  latest  comers,  and  hurries  the  levee  to  a  close. 

A  clock  over  his  head  chimes  eleven.  With  an  impatient 
gesture  he  dismisses  his  last  client,  flings  himself  back  in  his 
chair,  pushes  his  scant  black  hair,  thickly  streaked  with  gray, 
off  his  forehead  with  a  weary  air,  and  then  sits  for  some 
minutes  lost  in  deep  and  anxious  thought.  His  thick  brows 
knit,  his  lips  set  themselves  in  a  tight,  tense  line,  then,  with 
a  second  impatient  motion,  he  seizes  a  silver  hand-bell  and 
rings  a  sharp  peal. 

"I  shall  speedily  learn  whether  it  is  truth  or  slander,"  he 
mutters.  "  Paujol  and  Pauline  watch  her  well,  and  they 
belong  to  me  soul  and  body.  I  may  trust  their  tale,  and  if 
she  has  played  me  false,  why,  then — let  her  look  to  herself!  " 

The  bell  is  answered  almost  immediately  by  the  servant 
who  has  stood  on  guard. 

He  bows  and  awaits. 

"  Have  they  all  gone  ?  " 

"All,  M.  le  Prince." 

"  Has  Paujol  come  ?  " 

"  Paujol  has  been  awaiting  your  excellency's  commands, 
for  the  last  hour." 

"  Let  him  enter." 

The  man  bows  again  and  disappears. 

M.  le  Prince  lies  back  in  his  chair  and  plays  a  devil's  tattoo 
of  ill-repressed  impatience  on  its  arm.  Then  M.  Paujol 
enters — a  very  tall  man,  in  a  gorgeous  uniform,  no  other,  in 
fact,  than  Madame  Felicia's  huge  chasseur  in  his  robes  of 
state. 

"An-  Paujol.  You  have  been  here  for  some  time, 
Antoine  tells  me.  Have  you  obtained  leave  of  absence, 
then,  from  madame?" 

"Madame   is  not  aware   of  my  absence,  M.  le  Prince. 


M.   LE  PRINCE.  387 

Madame  departed  one  hour  ago  to  the  bal  d'opeia  at  the 
Gymnase — the  instant  she  left  the  Varieties,  in  fact." 

"  Ah-h  !"  the  interjection  cut  the  air  sharply  as  a  knife; 
"  to  the  bal  d'opera  at  the  Gymnase.  With  whom  ?  " 

"  With  the  young  milor  Anglais — M.  le  Vicomte  Dynely." 

A  moment's  silence.  An  ominous  flash,  swift,  dangerous, 
has  leaped  from  the  eyes  of  the  Neapolitan — his  cruelly  thin 
lips  set  themselves  a  little  tighter. 

"It  is  true,  then!  all  I  have  heard.  He  is  the  latest 
pigeon  madanie  has  seen  fit  to  pluck,  this  green  young  Brit 
ish  lordling !  He  is  with  her  at  all  times,  at  all  places. 
Paris  rings  with  his  infatuation — eh,  Paujol  ?  is  it  so  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  talk  of  Paris,  monseigneur,  of  the  clubs  and  the 
salons,  of  the  streets  and  the  theatre.  Does  your  excellency 
wish  me  to  tell  you  what  they  say?" 

«  All,  Paujol.     Word  for  word." 

"  They  say,  then,  M.  le  Prince,  that  but  the  English  noble 
has  a  wife  already,  madame  would  throw  over  your  excellency 
and  many  milor  Dynely.  They  say  that  madame  has  fallen 
in  love  with  his  handsome  face,  and  that  while  your  highness 
will  be  the  husband  and  dupe,  he  will  still  remain  the  favored 
lover." 

The  hand— thin,  sinewy,  strong — that  clasps  the  arm  of 
the  chair,  clutches  it  until  the  muscles  stand  out  like  cords. 
A  fierce  Neapolitan  oath  hisses  from  his  lips — otherwise  he 
sits  and  listens  unmoved. 

"Go  on,  Paujol,"  he  reiterates.  "Your  report  is  most 
amusing,  my  friend.  He  is  at  madame' s  constantly,  is  he 
not  ? — he  is  her  cavalier  servante  to  all  places  ? — his  gifts 
are  princely  in  their  profusion  and  splendor? — again,  is  it 
not  so?" 

"  It  is  so,  Illustrissima — Pauline  tells  me  the  jewels  he 
has  given  her  are  superb.  He  is  her  nightly  attendant  home 
from  the  theatre,  he  is  at  all  her  receptions,  each  day  they 
ride  in  the  Bois  or  the  Champs  Elysees,  he  spends  hours  in 
madame's  salon  each  morning.  To  none  of  the  many  gen 
tlemen  whom  madame  has  honored  with  her  regard  has  she 
shown  such  favor  as  to  M.  le  Vicomte  Dynely.  Madame 
Dynely,  it  is  said,  is  dying  of  jealousy.  All  Paris  laughs, 


388  M.    LE  PRINCE. 

monseigneur,  and  when  your    excellency  returns,  wonders 
how  the  drama  will  end." 

"Paris  will  soon  learn,"  monseigneur  answers  grimly. 
An  ominous  calm  has  settled  upon  him,  the  devil's  tattoo 
has  quite  ceased  now,  his  black  eyes  glitter  diabolically. 
"Thou  hast  watched  well,  Paujol,  my  friend;  thou  shalt 
be  well  rewarded.  Madame  dreams  not  then  of  my  re 
turn  ?  " 

"  She  does  not,  your  excellency.  I  heard  her  tell  M. 
Dynely  only  to-day  that  your  highness  would  not  return  to 
Paris  for  another  week." 

A  smile  curled  the  thin  lips. 

"  It  is  well.  And  so  safe  in  my  absence,  not  dreaming 
that  her  chasseur  and  femme  de  chambre  are  my  paid  and 
devoted  spies,  she  takes  as  her  lover  this  pretty-faced  Eng 
lish  boy,  and  all  Paris  laughs  at  me  !  It  is  well,  I  say.  But 
I  am  not  the  husband  yet,  and  the  English  say  those  laugh 
best  who  laugh  last.  And  so  they  assist  at  the  bal  d'opera 
to-night  ?  Ah,  what  hour  does  madame  propose  returning, 
Paujol?" 

"  An  hour  after  midnight,  M.  le  Prince.  She  quits  early 
that  she  and  M.  Dynely  may  start  early  for  Asnieres,  where 
they  spend  to-morrow." 

Again  that  threatening  flash  leaps  from  the  eyes  of  the 
prince. 

"  What  does  madame  wear  ?  "  he  demands. 

"  A  domino  noir,  with  a  knot  of  yellow  ribbon  on  the  left 
shoulder." 

"  And,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  goes  in  full  evening  dress,  with  a  yellow  rose 
in  his  button-hole,  and  lemon  gloves." 

Di  Venturini  takes  out  his  watch. 

"  Half-past  eleven — ample  time.  A  million  thanks,  friend 
Paujol !  As  I  say,  your  fidelity  shall  be  well  rewarded.  Is 
your  report  made  ?  If  so,  you  may  depart." 

"  One  moment,  monseigneur.  My  report  is  not  finished 
— the  most  important  part  is  yet  to  come.  Is  your  excel* 
lency  aware  that  madame  has  a  daughter  ?  " 

"  What ! " 


M.   LE  PRINCE.  389 

"  That  madame  has  a  daughter — a  tall  English  mam'selle 
of  sixteen  years,  at  present  stopping  with  madame?" 

The  yellow  complexion  of  the  Neapolitan  fades  to  a  green 
ish  white.  He  sits  and  stares. 

"  Paujol !     A  daughter  !     What  is  it  you  say  ?  " 

"The  truth,  M.  le  Prince.  A  daughter  and  a  husband. 
The  daughter  is  with  her  now,  as  I  tell  you  ;  the  husband 
divorced  her  many  years  ago.  The  daughter  was  brought 
to  the  house  late  one  night  by  an  English  gentleman,  a  friend 
of  M.  Dynely,  Monsieur  Dennison," — Paujol  pronounces  the 
English  names  with  perfect  correctness — "  and  has  remained 
ever  since.  Before  you  return,  however,  madame  proposes 
sending  her  away.  The  husband  came  once,  and  once  only. 
The  interview  was  brief.  Here  is  his  card." 

He  draws  it  out  and  places  it  before  him.  "  Gordon 
Caryll,"  Di  Venturini  reads.  For  a  moment  he  is  at  a  loss, 
for  a  moment  his  memory  refuses  to  place  him.  Then  it  all 
comes  upon  him  like  lightning.  The  picture  "  How  the 
Night  Fell,"  the  mysterious  resemblance  of  the  woman's 
face  to  Felicia,  her  determination  to  have  it  at  any  price, 
and  the  name  of  the  artist — Gordon  Locksley,  then — Gor 
don  Caryll  afterwards.  In  common  with  the  rest  of  the 
world  he  has  heard  Gordon  Caryl  I' s  story — the  mad  marriage 
of  his  youth,  the  scandal,  the  divorce,  the  prolonged  exile 
from  home  and  country,  and  now — and  now  Paujol  stands 
before  him  with  an  immovable  face,  and  tells  him  gravely 
that  Felicia,  the  woman  he  has  honored  with  the  offer  of 
his  hand,  is  that  fatal  divorced  wife. 

He  sits  for  a  moment,  petrified,  and  in  that  moment 
he  believes.  Paujol  never  makes  mistakes,  never  hazards 
rumors  without  proof.  She  had  lied  to  him  then  from  the 
beginning,  duped  him  from  first  to  last,  and  Prince  Di 
Venturini  could  better  endure  anything  than  the  thought 
that  he  has  been  fooled  and  laughed  at  by  the  woman  he  has 
loved. 

"  So  !  "  he  says  between  his  teeth,  "  this  must  be  seen  to  ! 
Proceed,  Paujol — you  are  indeed  a  treasure  beyond  price." 

Thus  encouraged,  M.  Paujol,  still  with  a  gravely  immova 
ble  face,  proceeds.  In  detail  he  narrates  how  Dennison 


390  M.   LE  PRINCE. 

brought  to  madame  at  midnight  this  waif  of  the  streets,  how 
madame  at  once  received  her,  how  Pauline  faithfully  did  her 
part,  overheard  every  word  of  the  conversation  that  passed 
between  mother  and  daughter,  and  faithfully  repeated  that 
conversation  to  him.  He  had  taken  it  down  in  writing  from 
her  lips  on  the  spot,  and  would  read  it  aloud  to  monseig- 
neur  now. 

He  unfolded  the  document  as  he  spoke,  and  slowly  read  it 
over,  that  momentous  conversation,  in  which  "Donny"  had 
claimed  Felicia  as  .her  mother,  and  Felicia  had  acknowledged 
her  as  her  child — the  pledge  of  secrecy  between  them,  and 
the  compact  by  which  madame  was  to  pass  her  off  as  a  dis 
tant  relative.  In  his  cold,  steady,  monotonous  voice,  Paujol 
read  it,  then  folded,  and  handed  it  respectfully  to  his  superior 
officer  and  master.  Di  Venturini,  his  yellow  face  still  sickly, 
greenish  white,  waited  for  more. 

"  The  girl — she  is  still  there  ?  "  he  asked. 

/*  She  is  still  there,  M.  le  Prince.  She  is  to  be  sent  away 
in  two  days.  She  and  madame  have  had  a  quarrel." 

"  Ah  !  a  quarrel !     What  about  ?  " 

"About  M'sieu  Dennison.  M.  Dennison  came  yesterday, 
came  the  day  before,  and  both  times  asked  to  see  the  young 
lady  he  had  picked  up  on  the  streets.  Madame  put  him  off 
with  a  falsehood.  Mam'selle  was  ailing  and  had  declined  to 
see  him.  This  Pauline  repeated  to  mam'selle,  who,  it  would 
appear,  is  most  anxious  to  meet  again  with  the  gentleman 
who  rescued  her.  Mam'selle  flew  into  a  violent  passion, 
sought  out  madame  and  taxed  her  with  duplicity.  Madame 
is  not  accustomed  to  being  arraigned  for  her  actions,  and 
possesses,  as  monseigneur  doubtless  is  aware,  a  fine,  high  tem 
per  of  her  own.  Before  five  minutes  madame  was  boxing 
mam'selle's  ears.  Mam'selle  became  perfectly  beside  her 
self  with  fury,  and  tried  to  rush  out  of  the  house,  but  was 
captured  and  brought  back  by  Pauline,  who  was,  as  usual, 
on  the  watch.  Madame  then  informed  Pauline  that  mam' 
selle  was  mad,  quite  mad,  that  her  madness  consisted  in 
fancying  her  her  mother,  that  she  had  run  away  from  her 
friends  under  that  delusion,  and  that  now  she  was  under  the 
necessity  of  locking  her  up,  for  a  day  or  two,  until  she  could 


M.   LE  PRINCE.  39! 

send  her  safely  back  to  those  friends.  The  passion  of 
mam'selle  was  frightful  to  behold,  so  Pauline  says,  but  she 
was  brought  back  and  safely  locked  up,  and  so  continues 
locked  up  at  this  present  moment.  She  refuses  to  speak  or 
eat,  and  lies  like  a  stone.  Madame  has  made  arrangements 
to  have  her  removed  the  day  after  to-morrow — where,  Pau 
line  has  not  as  yet  discovered." 

Paujol  pauses.  Di  Venturini,  his  face  still  green,  his  lips 
still  set,  his  eyes  still  gleaming,  looks  up. 

"  And  the  conversation  between  madam e  and  M.  Gordon 
Caryll — did  Pauline  also  overhear  that?" 

"  Pauline  overheard  every  word,  monseigneur,  and,  as 
before,  repeated  it  to  me.  As  before,  I  took  it  down  in  writ 
ing  upon  the  spot,  and  have  it  here.  Shall  I  read  it  aloud, 
M.  le  Prince  ?  " 

By  a  gesture  Di  Venturini  gives  assent.  Immovably 
Paujol  stands  and  reads  this  second  report ;  immovably  his 
master  sits  and  listens.  It  leaves  no  room  for  doubt — Feli 
cia  has  deceived  him,  as  thoroughly  and  utterly  as  ever 
woman  deceived  man.  A  husband — a  daughter — a  lover  ! 
and  he  the  laughingstock  of  Paris  !  His  face  for  an  instant 
is  distorted  with  passionate  fury,  as  Paujol  places  this 
second  paper  before  him. 

"  This  is  all  ?  "  he  hoarsely  asks. 

"  This  is  all,  M.  le  Prince." 

"  The  girl  is  still  locked  up,  you  say,  in  madame's  rooms, 
andmadame  will  not  return  from  the  opera  ball  until  one 
o'clock?  Wait,  Paujol,  wait !  " 

He  leans  his  forehead  on  his  hand  and  thinks  for  an  in 
stant  intently.  Then  he  looks  up. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  Paujol,  first  to  see  this  girl,  then  to 
the  Gymnase.  I  have  no  words  with  which  to  commend  the 
admirable  manner  you  and  Pauline  have  done  your  duty. 
Go  and  call  a  fiacre  at  once." 

Paujol  bows  low  and  obeys.  Di  Venturini  sits  alone.  He 
does  not  for  one  second  doubt  the  truth  of  all  this  he  has 
heard.  His  two  emissaries  are  fidelity  itself — their  loyalty 
has  been  long  ago  proven.  He  has  long  doubted  the  woman 
he  has  asked  to  marry  him.  To-night  has  but  made  convic- 


392 


LE  PRINCE. 


tion  doubly  sure,-  and  Coesare  Di  Venturini  is  not  a  man  to 
let  man  or  woman,  friend  or  foe,  6etray  him  with  impunity. 
His  face  looks  leaden  in  the  lamplight,  his  black  eyes  gleam 
with  a  fury  that  is  simply  murderous. 

"  A  husband  who  divorced  her  —  a  child  whom  she  has 
hidden  —  a  lover  for  whom  I  am  betrayed  !  "  he  repeats 
through  his  set  teeth,  "  and  all  Paris  laughing  at  me.  To 
night  at  the  bal  d'opera,  to-morrow  at  Asnieres,  and  M.  le 
Prince  safely  absent  for  another  week.  Diavolo  !  it  is  like 
the  plot  of  her  own  plays." 

He  laughs,  a  laugh  not  pleasant  to  hear,  rises  and  makes 
ready  for  his  drive.    The  fiacre  is  already  at  the  door,  he  en 
ters  and  is  rapidly  driven  away  to  the  lodgings  of  madame. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AT  THE    BAL   D' OPERA. 

HATE  her!  I  wish  she  were  dead!  Oh,  why, 
why,  why  did  I  ever  leave  Scotland  and  come  to  this 
horrible  place — to  her  ?  I  will  starve  myself  and 
die  if  I  cannot  get  my  freedom  in  any  other  way  ! 
Oh,  I  wish  I  had  died  before  I  ever  came  here  !  " 

It  was  the  burden  of  the  moan  "Mademoiselle  Donny" 
had  been  making  to  herself  for  the  last  t\vo  days.  To  Pau 
line,  who  brought  her  her  meals,  she  scorned  to  speak  at  all. 
She  lay  like  a  stone,  asking  no  questions,  answering  none, 
scarcely  touching  the  food.  Then  again  at  times  the  fierce 
passions  inherited  honestly  enough  from  those  who  had 
given  her  life  would  assert  themselves,  and  her  piercing  cries 
would  ring  through  the  rooms.  She  would  beat  on  the 
locked  door  and  barred  window  until  her  hands  bled  and 
she  sank  exhausted  and  breathless  upon  the  floor.  It  was 
known  to  all  madame's  household  that  the  poor  child,  rav 
ing  so  madly  in  that  bolted  and  barred  upper  room,  was 
hopelessly  insane,  and  in  another  day  or  two  would  be  safely 
shut  up  in  a  mats  on  de  saute. 

She  lies  now  prostrate  on  the  floor,  her  head  resting 
against  the  side  of  the  bed.  All  day  long  at  intervals,  her 
wild  cries  have  rung  out,  the  little  dark  childish  hands  have 
beaten  against  the  unyielding  door.  Aiadame's  nerves  have 
not  been  disturbed  thereby.  Madame  has  spent  the  long 
sunny  day  amid  the  wooded  slopes  and  sunlit  glades  of  St. 
Cloud  with  her  cavalier  servante,  Lord  Viscount  Dynely, 
and  the  pallid  curate's  widow.  Now  it  is  past  eleven  at 
night,  and  she  grovels  prone  here,  spent,  white,  exhausted, 
her  dusk  eyes  gleaming  weirdly  in  her  pallid  child's  face, 
17* 


394  AT   THE  BAL   D- OPERA. 

her  elfish  black  hair  all  tossed  and  dishevelled  over  her 
shoulders. 

"If  he  were  here,"  she  thinks  with  a  great  sobbing  sigh, 
"  he  would  save  me.  Oh,  if  I  had  only  stayed  with  him 
that  night,  and  never  come  here  !  He  was  good,  he  was 
kind  ;  1  would  have  been  happy  with  him." 

The  face  of  Terry  Dennison  rises  before  her — the  honest 
eyes,  the  frank  smile,  the  man's  strength  and  woman's  gentle 
ness,  and  her  heart  cries  out  for  him  now  in  her  trouble,  as 
though  he  had  been  the  friend  of  her  whole  life. 

"  He  asked  for  me,"  she  thinks,  with  another  long  shud 
dering  sob.  "  Twice  he  asked  for  me,  and  each  time  she 
told  him  a  lie — told  him  I  was  sick  and  did  not  want  to  see 
him.  And  she  struck  me  in  the  face.  Oh,  I  hate  her  !  I 
hate  her ! " 

Her  folded  arms  rest  on  the  bed — her  face  drops  on  them, 
and  so  poor  ill-used,  ill-tempered,  passionate  Donny  lies 
still.  She  falls  into  a  sort  of  lethargy  that  is  not  sleep,  but 
the  natural  result  of  so  much  fierce  excitement,  and  in  that 
half-doze  dreams — dreams  Terry  Dennison  is  coming  to  her 
rescue  once  more,  the  kindly  smile  she  remembers  so  well, 
and  trusts  so  entirely,  on  his  face — that  his  foot  is  ascend 
ing  the  stairs,  that  he  is  turning  the  key  in  the  door,  that  he 
is  in  the  room.  Then  a  light  flashes  through  the  darkness, 
and  she  looks  up  with  dazed  dreaming  eyes  to  see  a  man  in 
the  room,  shading  a  light  and  looking  at  her — a  man  who  is 
not  Terry  Dennison. 

"  Hush-h-h  !"  this  man  says,  putting  his  finger  on  his  lip, 
and  noiselessly  closing  the  door.  "  Not  a  word,  not  a  sound, 
mademoiselle  !  I  am  a  friend.  I  have  come  to  save  you. 
But  all  depends  on  your  being  perfectly  still." 

She  does  not  rise.  She  lies  and  looks  at  him,  her  wide- 
open,  black  eyes  full  of  silent  wonder  and  suspicion. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  she  asks. 

He  is  a  little  yellow  man,  in  a  richly-furred  coat,  and 
with  an  air  of  distinction,  but  Mam'selle  Donny  does  not 
like  his  look. 

"  I  am  a  friend,  as  I  told  you.     I  have  been  sent  to  save 


AT   THE  BAL   &  OPERA.  395 

yc  J.  I  have  been  sent  by  him — the  gentleman  who  brought 
you  here — Monsieur  Dennison." 

She  springs  to  her  feet  now,  the  sound  of  that  name  elec 
trifying  her. 

"  Take  me  to  him,"  she  cries,  breathlessly.  "  Oh,  sir  !  take 
me  to  him.  He  is  strong,  and  brave,  and  kind.  Oh,  take  me 
from  this  dreadful  house,  from  that  dreadful  woman  to  him  ! " 

"  Hush-h  !  "  he  says  again  ;  "softly,  mademoiselle — some 
one  may  hear.  I  have  come  to  take  you  to  him  presently, 
but  first — madame  is  your  mother,  is  she  not?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  she  impatiently  demands; 
"  what  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  Oh  !  let  me  go  away  at  once." 

"  It  has  everything  to  do  with  it,  mam'selle.  Monsieur 
Dennison  told  me  to  ascertain.  He  would  have  come  him 
self,  but  you  know  madame  distrusts  him  and  will  not  let  him 
see  you,  lest  you  should  tell  him  the  truth." 

"  I  know  !  I  know  !  "  she  impatiently  interrupts.  "  She 
lied  to  him  !  She  told  him  I  was  ill,  when  he  asked  for  me, 
and  I  was  dying  to  see  him.  She  slapped  my  face,  and 
locked  me  up  here,  and  I  hate  her  !  "  Her  eyes  flashed  fire, 
her  hands  clenched.  "What  is  it  you  want  to  know  ?"  she 
cried  excitedly.  "  I'll  tell  you  anything  —  everything  so 
that  you  take  me  from  here,  to  him." 

"  Tell  me  your  story — who  you  are.  She  is  your  mother, 
is  she  not  ?  I  see  the  likeness  in  your  face.  Who  is  your 
father,  and  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  wish  I  did.  I  would  make  Mr.  Den 
nison  take  me  to  him.  She  is  my  mother — oh,  yes  !  and  I 
was  born  in  Quebec,  more  than  sixteen  years  ago.  My 
father  would  not  live  with  her,  I  don't  know  why,  and  there 
was  a  divorce.  So  Joan  told  me.  Joan  was  there  when  I 
was  born,  and  my  mother  left  me  with  her  and  went  away. 
Joan  brought  me  up  ;  now  she  is  dead,  and  so  I  came  here. 
I  wish  I  never  had — oh  !  I  wish  I  never  had.  Her  name  is 
not  Madame  Felicia — her  name  is  Rosamond.  She  called 
herself  Mrs.  Gordon  when  I  was  born,  and  my  father's  name 
was  Gordon  Caryll.  I  don't  know  whether  he  is  living  or 
dead.  Joan  did  not  know.  That  is  all.  And  now  I  have 
told  you,  I  want  you  to  take  me  away." 


396 


AT  THE  BAL  &  OPERA. 


But  her  visitor  arose  and  put  her  gently  back.  One  look 
into  her  face  had  settled  the  question  of  her  maternity. 

"  Not  to-night,  petite.  It  is  late  for  you  to  be  abroad. 
But  you  shall  be  taken  away,  and  that  speedily — you  may 
trust  my  word  when  I  say  so." 

Then,  before  the  bewildered  child  can  quite  realize  it,  the 
little  man  with  the  yellow  face  and  furred  coat  is  gone,  the 
key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  she  is  alone  in  her  prison  once 

more. 

********* 

The  bal  d' opera  was  at  its  height.  The  vast  building  was 
one  sheet  of  white  gaslight ;  perfumes,  pastilles,  and  the  rich 
odor  of  flowers  made  the  atmosphere  almost  overpowering. 
The  orchestra,  playing  the  sweet  Strauss  waltzes,  rilled  the 
air  with  quivering  melody.  And  above  the  rich  strains 
of  the  music  arose  the  shrill  laughter,  the  shrill  clatter  of 
ceaseless  gay  voices,  as  dominoes,  white  and  black,  flower- 
girls,  debardeurs,  gypsies,  paysannes,  coryphees,  princes  au 
theatre,  and  men  in  plain  evening  dress,  with  masks  off  or  on, 
as  the  whim  took  them,  flashed  and  flitted  ceaselessly  and 
noisily  to  and  fro.  A  gorgeous  picture  of  one  phase  of 
Paris  gaslit  life — a  glimpse  of  the  Arabian  Nights — brilliant, 
intoxicating,  wicked. 

Among  the  maskers  there  came,  quite  alone  and  moving 
slowly,  a  short,  slight  man,  in  a  furred  and  frogged  great-coat, 
which,  despite  the  warmth,  he  still  retained,  his  mask  conceal 
ing  all  but  the  glitter  of  two  restless  black  eyes.  He  made  his 
way  to  the  centre  of  the  assemblage,  and  leaning  negligently 
against  a  statue  of  the  Apollo,  watched  the  brilliant  phantas 
magoria  as  it  flitted  before  him.  Suddenly  he  started 
slightly  and  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  sharp,  sibilant  sound. 
What  he  looked  for  he  saw. 

There  flew  swiftly  past  him,  in  the  dizzy  whirl  of  the  half- 
mad  waltzers,  a  black  domino,  with  a  knot  of  yellow  ribbon 
on  her  left  shoulder.  The  tall  partner  who  clasped  her  so 
closely,  was  a  gentleman  in  plain  evening  dress,  a  yellow 
rose  in  his  buttonhole,  primrose  kids  on  his  hands.  The 
wild  laughter  of  the  lady  reached  him  as  she  whirled  by  like 
a  bacchante,  laughter  he  knew  well,  and  had  heard  often, 


AT   THE  BAL   &  OPERA.  397 

The  hawk  had  sprung  upon  its  quarry — from  that  moment  he 
lost  sight  of  them  no  more. 

The  waltz  ended.  The  domino  noir  moved  away  on  her 
companion's  arm  to  a  distant  corner,  where  the  glare  of  gas 
light  was  less  blinding,  where  tall  tropic  plants  cast  shade, 
where  but  few  people  were,  and  where  seats  for  the  weary 
were  placed.  Quietly,  stealthily,  the  gentleman  in  the  mask 
and  furred-coat  followed,  unobserved.  The  lady  threw  her 
self  into  one  of  the  seats,  and  fluttered  open  her  fan. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  but  it  is  hot !  Eric,  mon  enfant,  have  the 
common  humanity  to  go  and  fetch  me  a  water  ice.  That 
last  waltz  was  charming,  and  how  well  you  have  my  step. 
We  must  dance  the  Krolsbalklange  valse  together,  and  then 
— home.  Eric,  go  for  the  ice  if  you  would  not  see  me  ex 
pire." 

She  removed  her  mask  and  showed  the  flushed,  laughing, 
lovely  face  of  Felicia.  Her  companion  rose  to  obey,  whis 
pering  something  that  caused  madame's  shrill  laughter  once 
more  to  peal  out  as  she  struck  him  with  her  fan.  "  Fi  done, 
Eric,  I  know  what  your  tender  speeches  are  worth.  It  is 
too  warm,  and  I  am  too  fatigued  for  love-making.  Go  for 
my  ice." 

He  departed.  Five  minutes  after,  as  he  was  slowly  making 
his  way  through  the  revolving  throng  with  madame's  water-ice 
in  his  hand,  a  man  in  a  furred  overcoat  ran  rudely  against 
him,  knocking  it  out  of  his  hand  and  over  his  immaculate 
evening  suit. 

"  Mille  pardons,  monsieur,"  this  personage  cried,  with  a 
low  bow,  but  a  mocking  laugh.  "  But  if  monsieur  will  be 
clumsy  !  I  regret  exceedingly  having  spoiled  monsieur's  best 
coat;  but — " 

A  chorus  of  laughter  from  the  bystanders,  who  were  in 
the  mood  to  laugh  at  any  mishap  to  their  neighbors,  how 
ever  slight,  cut  him  shore.  The  next  instant  the  little  man 
was  flat  on  his  back,  sent  thither  by  a  well-directed  blow 
straight  from  the  shoulder.  As  if  by  enchantment  a  crowd 
gathered.  There  is  magic  in  a  "row"  that  speaks  to  the 
heart  of  men  of  all  nations.  The  insolent  gentleman  in  the 
frogged  coat  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  shrill  cry  of  fury,  but 


398  AT  THE  BAL  D>  OPERA. 

before  he  fairly  reached  them  he  was  sprawling  on  his  back 
once  more. 

"  Come  on,"  Lord  Dynely  said,  with  perfect  coolness ; 
"  as  my  best  coat  is  spoiled,  I  don't  mind  spoiling  it  a  little 
more.  Get  up  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  walk  through  a 
ball-room  without  running  against  your  neighbors." 

"  Mon  Dieu,  Eric  !  "  cried  the  voice  of  Felicia,  who  had 
replaced  her  mask,  and  now  rushed  to  the  scene ;  "  what  is 
the  matter  ?  Who  is  this  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  the  honor  of  monsieur's  acquaintance  at 
present ;  but  all  the  same  it  affords  me  pleasure  to  teach 
him—" 

He  paused,  for  madame  had  clutched  his  arm  with  2 
cry  of  terror  and  recognition.  With  eyes  literally  flashing 
flame,  Di  Venturini  had  sprung  to  his  feet  like  a  tiger,  torn 
off  his  mask,  and  confronted  them. 

"Yes,  madame — it  is  I.  You  recognize  me,  I  see.  Tell 
your  lover  who  I  am.  You  know  me,  if  he  does  not.  We 
shall  be  better  acquainted  before  long.  I  have  the  honor, 
have  I  not,  of  speaking  to  Lord  Dynely  ?  " 

He  hissed  out  his  words  in  English  that  the  crowd  might 
not  understand.  P>ic,  confounded  himself  by  this  sudden 
rencontre,  bowed  also. 

"  A  friend  of  mine  shall  wait  upon  you,  my  lord,  to 
morrow  morning,"  Di  Venturini  said  in  a  rapid  whisper. 
"  You  have  heard  of  me — I  am  the  Prince  Di  Venturini. 
For  you,  madame,"  with  a  low  bow,  "  I  shall  see  you  later." 

Before  either  could  speak  he  turned,  made  his  way  through 
the  throng,  and  quitted  the  bal  masque.  For  this  purpose 
he  had  come — his  end  was  accomplished. 

The  crowd  dispersed,  rather  disappointed  at  having,  after 
till,  been  cheated  out  of  a  free  fight.  Felicia  and  Lord 
Dynely  looked  at  each  other  blankly  for  a  moment.  Then 
madame  broke  into  one  of  her  shrill  laughs. 

"  Ma  foi  /  Eric,  my  friend,  but  this  is  droll !  It  is  like 
one  of  our  vaudevilles  at  the  Varieties,  where  madame 
amuses  herself  in  monsieur's  absence,  and  monsieur,  furious 
and  jealous,  unexpectedly  appears.  What  a  scene  that  will 
be  to-morrow ! — he  is  all  that  there  is  of  the  most  jealous — 


AT  THE  BAL    WO  PER  A. 


399 


that  poor  little  M.  Di  Venturini,  and  I  did  promise  him, 
before  he  left,  never  to  coquet  more.  There  is  one  waltz, 
mon  cher — shall  we  dance  it,  or — " 

"  We  will  dance  it,  of  course,"  Lord  Dynely  answers , 
"  a  waltz  with  you  is  too  rare  a  treat  to  be  lightly  given  up." 

The  soft,  sweet  strains  of  the  Krolsbalklange  float  out, 
and  they  whirl  away  with  it,  in  perfect  time.  Felicia  is  a 
perfect  dancer,  her  feet  do  not  seem  to  touch  the  floor. 
Dynely  means  what  he  says  when  he  avers  that  a  waltz  with 
her  is  a  rare  treat.  Then  it  ends,  and  he  wraps  her  in  her 
opera  cloak,  and  leads  her  to  her  carriage.  She  leans  for 
ward,  her  witching  face  in  the  full  glow  of  the  gaslight,  a 
smile  on  the  red  lips,  in  the  lustrous,  topaz  eyes. 

"  And  Asnieres,  mon  enfant"  she  says,  "  do  we  go  to 
morrow  down  the  Seine  as  agreed,  or  do  we — " 

"We  go!"  he  answered,  his  blue  eyes  flashing;  "not 
for  all  the  jealous  Italians  in  Christendom  would  I  throw 
over  to-morrow's  excursion." 

He  stoops  and  kisses  the  jewelled,  ungloved  hand  she  ex 
tends.  Once  again  she  laughs,  that  sweet,  derisive  laugh  he 
knows  so  well.  Then  the  carriage  rolls  away.  Circe  has 
gone,  and  her  victim  stands  alone  in  the  cool  February  night, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AFTER   THE    BALL. 

stands  alone  under  the  cold,  white  stars,  and 
as  the  chill  wind  sweeps  about  him,  as  the  chill 
dawn  breaks,  his  senses  slowly  return.  One  way 
or  other  this  intoxicating  flirtation  of  his  has  ended 
at  least.  To-morrow's  excursion  down  the  Seine  to  As- 
nieres  is  probably  its  closing  act.  For  M.  le  Prince  Di 
Venturini,  the  affianced  of  Felicia,  has  been  insulted,  and  M. 
le  Prince  is  a  man  to  wipe  out  such  insults  thoroughly  and 
well.  He  is  a  noted  duelist — three  times  has  he  killed  his 
man ;  lighting  his  cigar  coolly  and  walking  away  while  his 
adversary  lay  dying  hard  among  the  sweet  summer  grasses. 
He  is  a  skilled  swordsman,  a  dead  shot.  More  than  once, 
since  the  beginning  of  his  flirtation  with  the  fair  Felicia,  has 
Lord  Dynely  been  told  that.  And  he — of  fencing  he  knows 
next  to  nothing — a  pistol  he  has  not  fired  three  times  in  his 
life.  And  "  a  friend  will  wait  upon  him  to-morrow,"  and  the 
morning  after,  at  the  farthest,  he  will  meet  Di  Venturini 
somewhere  amid  the  wooded  slopes  of  Versailles. 

Physically,  Lord  Dynely  was  the  farthest  possible  re 
move  from  a  coward.  Life  may  be  tolerably  pleasant, 
and  still  a  man  may  face  the  possibility  of  leaving  it  with 
good  grace,  if  his  conscience  lie  dormant.  To  fear  death, 
one  must  fear  what  comes  after  death.  Of  that,  like  most 
men  of  his  stamp,  wholly  given  up  to  the  pursuit  of  pleas 
ure,  Lord  Dynely  never  thought.  After  all,  taken  with 
all  its  dissipations,  even  at  its  best  and  brightest,  here  in 
Paris,  life  was  a  good  deal  of  a  bore — not  so  desirable  a 
thing  to  keep,  by  any  manner  of  means,  that  one  should 
make  much  of  a  howling  at  resigning  it.  And  that  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  when  he  stood  face  to  face  with  Di  Ventu- 


AFTER    THE  BALL. 


401 


rini,  under  the  leafless  trees  of  Versailles,  or  the  Bois  cle 
Vincennes,  lie  must  resign  it,  he  was  as  certain  as  that  he  lit 
his  cigar  now,  and  strolled  slowly  homeward  under  the 
white,  shining  stars.  Yes,  life  was  a  bore ;  a  man  tired  of 
all  things.  A  pretty  face  with  two  blue  eyes  bewitches  him, 
he  marries  it,  and  is  wearied  to  death  or  satiety  in  a  fort 
night.  One  grew  tired  of  women,  of  wine,  of  horses,  the 
rattle  of  the  dice,  the  croak  of  the  croupier,  the  shuffle  of  the 
cards,  the  whirl  of  the  ball-room,  the  glare  of  the  gas-light, 
of  all  things  in  this  wearisome,  lower  world.  Even  swarth- 
skinned,  topaz-eyed  actresses  pall  after  a  few  weeks,  after  a 
few  thousand  pounds  spent  upon  them  in  presents,  for  which 
"becks  and  nods,  and  wreathed  smiles"  are  but  a  flat  re 
turn.  Vanitas  Vanitatem !  The  song  Solomon  sung  so 
many  thousand  years  ago  is  wearily  echoed  by  his  sons — the 
jeunesse  dorte  of  to-day.  And  one  other  day  must  end  it  all. 
There  would  be  the  trip  down  the  Seine  to-morrow,  sunshine 
above  them,  music  around  them,  a  golden  blue  river  below 
them,  and  two  yellow,  black,  lustrous  eyes  smiling  languid 
ly  upon  him.  The  morning  after,  in  the  gray,  cold  dawn, 
there  would  be  that  silent  woodland  meeting,  the  sharp  re 
port  of  two  pistol  shots,  a  yellow,  Neapolitan  prince  flying 
in  haste  out  of  the  imperial  dominions  of  Napoleon  the 
Third,  and  a  man  lying  stark  on  the  blood-stained  grass,  his 
dead  face  upturned  to  the  sky.  As  in  a  vivid  picture  before 
him  he  saw  it  all.  And  then  there  would  be  a  wedding  in 
Italy  a  few  weeks  later,  and  the  topaz  eyes  would  smile  for 
life  on  the  Neapolitan  prince.  For  the  dead  man — well,  for 
him,  in  the  creed  of  the  man  himself,  the  best  of  all  things 
— annihilation  ! 

He  walked  home  very  slowly,  smoking  and  half  dreamily, 
thinking  all  this.  He  must  keep  the  matter  from  his 
womankind,  and  he  must  find  a  friend.  There  was  Boville 
— yes,  Boville  would  do — he  would  see  him  the  first  thing  to 
morrow,  and  refer  Di  Venturini's  second  to  him.  Under 
ordinary  circumstances,  Terry  Dennison  would  have  been 
his  man,  but  under  present  circumstances  Dennison  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  For  a  second  quarrel  had  taken 
place  between  the  two  men — a  quarrel  bitter  and  deep ; 


4O2  AFTER    THE  BALL. 

and  for  the  same  cause — Dynely's  neglect  of  his  wife.  It 
had  occurred  three  days  after  the  sudden  and  somewhat  sur 
prising  departure  of  Gordon  Caryll.  Eric  still  held  fast, 
body  and  soul,  by  Felicia,  Crystal  still  drooping  with  that 
pathetic,  heart-broken  face.  By  command  of  Lady  Dynely, 
mere,  Terry  had  taken  Crystal  for  a  drive  in  the  Bois,  and 
there,  face  to  face,  in  the  yellow  afternoon  sunshine,  they 
had  come  upon  the  glittering  little  equipage  of  Felicia  the 
dancer.  Lying  back  in  her  silks  and  sables  and  seal  skins, 
her  "  flower  face  "  smiling  behind  a  little  lace  veil,  her  English 
cavalier,  Lord  Dynely,  beside  her,  so  Lord  Dynely's  wife 
had  come  upon  them  full.  For  a  second,  four  pairs  of  eyes 
met — then  the  bright  carriage  of  the  danseuse  flashed  past, 
and  Felicia's  derisive  laugh  came  back  to  them  on  the 
breeze. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  Eric,  a  pleasant  rencontre  for  you  ?  "  she 
cried,  unaffectedly  amused  by  the  situation.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  Mr.  Dennison  ?  He  gave  me  a  look  absolutely 
murderous  as  we  passed." 

Crystal  had  fallen  back  with  a  gasping  cry  as  though  a 
brutal  hand  had  struck  her. 

"  Oh,  Terry  !  take  me  home,"  she  had  sobbed,  as  once 
before,  and  Terry,  in  silence,  with  flashing  eyes  and  lowering 
brows  and  compressed  lips,  had  obeyed. 

Four  hours  later  and  there  was  a  "  scene  "  in  the  salon  of 
the  Dynelys.  Crystal,  sick  heart  and  soul,  was  alone  in 
her  room ;  Eric,  waiting  for  dinner,  was  reading  the  even 
ing  paper,  when  Demiison  strode  in  and  confronted  him. 

"Dynely!"  he  passionately  demanded,  "how  is  this  to 
end?" 

Lord  Dynely  looked  up,  the  conscious  blood  reddening 
his  transparent,  girl-like  face. 

"  How  is  what  to  end  ?  May  I  request  you  to  take  a 
somewhat  less  aggressive  tone  in  addressing  me,  Mr.  Denni 
son  ?  » 

"Your  neglect — your  shameful  neglect  of  your  wife.  It  is 
brutal,  it  is  murderous — you  are  killing  her  by  inches,  before 
our  eyes ! " 

The  flush  faded  from  the  blonde  face  of  Viscount  Dynely. 


AFTER    THE  BALL. 


403 


The  livid  whiteness  of  deadly  anger  took  its  place.     He  laid 
down  his  paper  and  spoke  with  ominous  calm. 

"  May  I  inquire  if  my  wife  has  sent  you  here  to  tell  me 
this?" 

"Your  wife  knows  nothing  of  my  coming — that  you 
know  as  well  as  I.  But  I  swear,  Eric,  this  must  end  !  You 
are  breaking,  brutally  breaking  your  wife's  heart  All  Paris 
is  talking,  is  laughing  over  your  besotted  infatuation  for  that 
old  woman — Felicia  the  dancer !  You  spend  your  time,  you 
lavish  your  gifts  on  that  painted  Jezebel,  while  Crystal  dies 
day  by  day  before  your  eyes.  And  only  seven  weeks  since 
you  married  her  ! '" 

Eric  rose  to  his  feet — the  light  of  deadly  rage  filling  his 
eyes,  but  before  he  could  speak  Dennison  interposed : 

"  Stay ! "  he  cried,  lifting  his  hand,  "  hear  me  out !  I 
pledged  myself  once  never  to  quarrel  with  you,  do  what  you 
might,  say  what  you  would.  That  promise  I  mean  to  keep. 
It  is  the  farthest  possible  from  my  wish — the  thought  of 
quarrelling  with  you.  But,  Eric,  I  say  again  this  must  end." 

"  Indeed  !  You  speak  of  my  very  pleasant  platonic  friend 
ship  with  the  most  charming  woman  in  Paris,  I  presume. 
May  I  ask  Jiow  you  propose  to  end  it  ?  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Eric,  don't  sneer  !  I  speak  to  you 
as  a  friend,  as  a  brother.  You  cannot  be  quite  heartless 
• — you  cannot  have  quite  outlived  your  love  for  Crystal. 
Don't  you  see  you  are  killing  her — poor,  little  soul,  don't 
you  see  she  worships  the  ground  you  walk  on,  the  least 
thing  your  hand  has  touched.  She  would  die  for  you,  Eric  ; 
and  you — you  neglect  her  more  shamefully  than  ever  bride 
was  neglected  before  ;  you  insult  her  by  your  devotion  to  this 
worthless  woman.  If  you  had  seen  her  after  you  had  passed 
to-day "  he  stops  suddenly  and  walks  away  to  a  win 
dow.  "  Don't  let  us  row,  Eric,"  he  says  hoarsely ;  I  have 
no  wish  to  interfere  with  or  dictate  to  you,  but  in  some  wav 
I  stand  pledged  to  Crystal  since  her  happiness  is  at  stake. 
Our  friendship  of  the  past  has  given  me  the  right  to  be  her 
protector  at  least." 

"  The  right  of  a  jilted  lover ! "  Eric  returns,  that  bitter 
sneer  still  on  lips  and  eyes.  "  Let  us  understand  each  other, 


404  AFTER    THE  BALL. 

Dennison.  This  is  the  second  time  you  have  interfered  in 
this  matter.  I  warn  you  now,  let  it  be  the  last.  I  have 
listened  to  your  insolence,  because  I  wish  to  drag  my  wife's 
name  into  no  public  scandal,  or  quarrel  with  you.  It  is  the 
last  time  I  will  be  so  forbearing.  Be  kind  enough  to  quit 
these  rooms  at  once,  and  enter  them  no  more !  Be  kind 
enough,  also,  to  discontinue  your  acquaintance  with  Lady 
Dynely.  If  I  were  inclined  to  take  umbrage  easily,  I  might 
with  reason  object  to  you,  her  jilted  lover,  as  I  said  before, 
playing  the  role  of  attendant  cavalier,  but  I  let  that  pass — 
this  once.  I  shall  order  my  wife  to  receive  your  visits  no 
longer,  and  I  think  she  will  hardly  venture  to  disobey. 
After  to-day,  Mr.  Dennison,  you  will  understand  our  ac 
quaintance  is  at  an  end." 

And  then,  before  Terry  could  speak,  his  lordship  had 
quitted  the  salon,  and  nothing  was  left  but  to  obey.  And 
the  only  result  of  his  interference  was  frigid  coldness  on 
the  part  of  Lord  Dynely  to  his  wife,  and  increased  devo 
tion,  if  that  were  possible,  to  Felicia.  They  had  met  more 
than  once  since,  and  Dynely  had  cut  him  dead.  So  matters 
between  those  two,  who  had  grown  up  as  brothers,  stood  to 
night.  Verily,  a  woman  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  ruptured 
masculine  friendships  of  this  lower  world  ! 

The  early  dawn  was  breaking  before  Lord  Dynely  reached 
his  hotel.  Crystal,  pale  as  a  shadow,  wasted  and  wan,  lay 
asleep.  A  pang  of  something  like  actual  remorse  shot 
through  him  as  he  looked  at  her,  so  changed  in  those  few 
brief  weeks. 

"Poor  little  soul!"  he  thought,  "if — if  the  worst  does 
happen  to-morrow,  it  will  be  hard  lines  on  her." 

Of  no  use  going  to  bed,  he  thought ;  he  could  not  sleep. 
He  threw  himself  on  a  sofa  in  the  dressing-room  adjoining, 
still  in  his  evening  suit,  and  in  ten  minutes  was  fast  as  a 
church. 

The  breakfast  hour  was  past  when  he  awoke,  and  Crystal 
was  seated  beside  him,  watching  him  with  eyes  of  unutter 
able  pathetic  yearning.  She  started  up  confusedly,  as  he 
opened  his  eyes,  coloring,  as  though  caught  in  some  guilty  act. 

"Waiting  for  me,  Crystal?"  he  said,  rising  on  his  elbow, 


AFl'ER    THE  BALL.  405 

with  a  yawn.  "  You  were  asleep  when  I  came  home,  and  I 
would  not  disturb  you.  What  is  the  hour  ?  Ten,  by  Jove  ! 
Is  breakfast  ready  ?  I  have  an  engagement  this  morning, 
and  must  get  off  at  once." 

Breakfast  dispatched  hurriedly,  his  dress  changed,  a  note 
sent  in  hot  haste  to  Boville,  Lord  Dynely  was  waited  upon 
by  a  tall,  fiercely-mustached,  soldierly  Frenchman.  The 
interview  was  brief,  and  strictly  private.  Boville  sauntering 
lazily  in,  encountered  monsieur  swaggering  out. 

"Who's  your  military  friend,  Dynely?"  he  inquired, 
"  and  what  the  deuce  do  you  want  of  a  man  in  such  a  hurry 
as  this  ? :' 

"  My  military  friend  is  Monsieur  Raoul  De  Concressault, 
Captain  of  Zouaves  ;  his  business  here,  to  bring  me  a  chal 
lenge  from  Prince  Di  Venturini ;  and  I  have  sent  for  you  in 
such  a  huffy  to  be  my  second  in  the  affair.  Take  a  seat, 
Boville,  and  a  cigar." 

"  By  Jove  ! "  cried  Boville,  taking  the  seat,  but  not  the 
cigar.  **  I  thought  it  would  come  to  this.  Of  course  Felicia 
is  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course — is  not  her  charming  sex  at  the  bottom  of  all 
the  mischief  and  murder  on  earth  ?  Also,  of  course  every 
thing  is  strictly  sub  rosa — it  won't  do  to  let  it  get  wind." 

"Certainly  not,"  Boville  answered  gravely.  "Tell  us 
about  it,  Dynely.  I  thought  M.  le  Prince  was  safely  away 
for  another  week." 

"  So  did  I— so  did  Felicia,"  Dynely  said,  with  a  slight 
laugh.  "  He  turned  up  in  most  dramatic  fashion  at  the 
bal  masque  at  the  Gymnase  last  night,  however." 

And  thereupon  his  lordship  briefly,  and  not  without  humor, 
sketched  the  rencontre  at  the  bal  d' opera. 

"  And  the  result  is  to  be  a  duel  ?"  said  Boville,  still  very 
gravely.  "  Dynely,  are  you  aware  Di  Venturini  is  the  best 
swordsman,  the  deadest  shot,  in  Europe  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  mon  ami.  All  that  is  a  matter  of  history. 
Light  up,  old  fellow ;  I  can  recommend  these  Manillas." 

"  And  you  ?  "  Boville  inquired,  obeying. 

"I?  Oh  !  well,  I  know  next  to  nothing  of  fencing,  and 
never  fired  a  pistol  half  a  dozen  times  in  my  life." 


406  AFTER   THE  BALL. 

11  But — good  Heaven  !  Dynely,  you  have  no  chance  at 
all  then,  if  the  prince  means  mischief!  And  he  mostly  does, 
I  can  tell  you,  when  he  fights.  Don't  you  know  he  has 
killed  three  men  already  ?  " 

Lord  Dynely  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  can't  show  the  white  feather  on  that  account.  I've  got 
into  this  scrape,  and  I  must  take  the  consequences.  I've 
referred  De  Concressault  to  you.  You'll  act  for  me,  old 
fellow,  I  know  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  helping  to  murder  you,"  Boville  answered, 
with  a  groan.  "Is  there  no  way,  Dynely,  by  which " 

"  There  is  no  way  by  which  this  matter  can  be  settled, 
except  by  a  meeting,"  Dynely  answered,  impatiently.  Di  Ven- 
turini  came  to  the  ball  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  insult 
me.  He  did  it,  and  I  knocked  him  down  twice.  You 
must  perceive  there  can  be  but  one  ending  to  such  a  thing 
as  that." 

"  Devil  take  Felicia  !  "  growled  his  friend.  "  I  wish  you 
had  never  seen  the  sorceress.  She  is  fatal  to  all  men.  She 
reminds  one  of  those  fabled  What's-their-names,  mermaids 
— sirens — Lurline — who  lure  poor  devils  with  their  smiles 
and  songs,  and  then  eat  them  up,  and  crunch  their  bones. 
It's  a  deuce  of  an  affair,  and  I  never  served  a  friend  so 
unwillingly  before  in  my  life.  By  the  way,  was  the  prince 
masked  ?  How  did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  He  tore  off  his  mask  in  a  fine  frenzy  after  the  second 
knock  down.  /  never  saw  him  before  in  my  life.  And 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  he  didn't  see  me  at  all.  I  kept 
my  mask  on  through  the  whole  fracas — never  thought  of  it 
once.  By  Jove  ! "  Eric  cried,  laughing,  "  the  idea  of  going 
out  with  a  man  he  never  saw  ! " 

"  It's  no  laughing  matter,  let  me  tell  you,"  Boville  growled 
again ;  "  it's  an  infernal  business,  and  I  wish  you  had 
chosen  any  one  else  to  act  for  you  in  the  matter.  How 
ever,  if  you  insist  that  it  is  inevitable " 

"  It  is  most  decidedly  and  emphatically  inevitable ;  so  be 
off  and  arrange  for  to-morrow  morning,  there's  a  good  fellow. 
I've  an  engagement  that  I  would  not  be  late  for  for  worlds." 

"  And  pistols  or  swords " 


AFTER    THE  BALL.  407 

"  Are  equal  to  me.  Of  the  two  I  prefer  pistols,  as  quick 
est  and  most  decisive.  You  understand.  I  have  no  doubt 
the  result  would  be  the  same  with  either  weapon,  for  I  think 
his  excellency  means  mischief,  as  you  say,  only  pistols  con 
clude  things  with  dispatch." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  and  separated.  Boville, 
reluctantly,  to  settle  preliminaries  with  De  Concressault,  and 
Lord  Dynely  to  keep  his  last  appointment  with  Madame 
Felicia  down  the  Seine,  to  Asnieres. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CHEZ  MADAME. 

|ALF  AN  HOUR  later  Madame  Felicia  and  Lord 
Dynely  had  fairly  started  upon  their  excursion — - 
their  last,  they  both  knew,  and  the  knowledge  gave 
the  forbidden  fruit  fresh  zest,  even  to  their  jaded 
palates.  You  must  feel  an  interest  in  a  handsome  and  de 
voted  young  cavalier,  lying  in  the  sunshine  at  your  feet,  who, 
this  time  to-morrow,  for  your  sake,  may  be  lying  with  a  bullet 
through  his  heart.  As  well  as  Lord  Dynely  himself,  Felicia 
knew  what  would  inevitably  take  place  in  the  light  of  to 
morrow's  dawn,  and,  though  his  youthful  and  impassioned 
lordship  was  beginning  seriously  to  bore  her,  she  had  never 
before  been  one-half  so  sweet,  so  witching,  as  to-day. 

Half  an  hour  after  their  departure,  there  rattled  up  to 
madame's  door  a  fiacre,  from  which  alighted  M.  le  Prince. 
That  she  would  be  awaiting  his  coining,  with  more  or  less  of 
impatience  and  anxiety,  he  did  not  doubt.  He  absolutely 
stood  dumb,  when  the  tall  chasseur,  indorsed  by  Mam'selle 
Pauline,  announced  madame's  departure,  and  with  whom. 

"  Gone  for  the  day  to  Asnieres,  and  with  Lord  Dynely  !  " 
he  repeated,  staring  at  them  blankly.  The  extent  of  the  de 
fiant  audacity  absolutely  took  his  breath  away. 

"  But,  yes,  M.  le  Prince,"  Pauline  answered,  with  a  shrug, 
"  not  to  return  until  barely  time  to  dress  for  the  theatre." 

"  And  she  left  no  note,  no  message  of  any  kind  for  me  ?  " 

"  None,  M.  le  Prince." 

"  How  did  they  seem,  Pauline  ?  in  good  spirits,  or " 

"  In  the  very  highest  spirits,  M.  le  Prince.  She  dressed 
with  much  more  than  usual  care,  and  so,  evidently,  had  mi- 
lor.  I  heard  her  tell  him,  as  they  went  away,  laughing 


CHEZ  MADAME.  409 

together,  that  he  was  locking  handsome  as  an  archangel  and 
elegant  as  a  secretary  of  legation,  and  that  she  looked  for 
ward  to  the  pleasantest  day  of  her  life." 

He  set  his  teeth  with  a  snap,  his  eyes  aflame. 

"  And  he — what  said  monsieur  ?  " 

"  That  all  days  must  be  the  pleasantest  of  his  life  spent  in 
her  company.  Then  they  drove  off  side  by  side." 

The  yellow  complexion  of  the  prince  had  turned  dirty 
white,  with  jealous  rage.  If  one  chance  of  life  had  remained 
to  his  rival,  he  lost  it  in  that  moment ;  if  one  chance  of  set 
ting  herself  right  had  remained  to  the  woman  who  slighted 
him,  she  lost  it  in  that  hour. 

"And,  mademoiselle?"  he  asked,  "  the  little  captive — 
what  of  her  ?  " 

"  Is  still  captive,  monseigneur.  She  is  to  be  removed  to- 
right,  after  midnight,  safely  out  of  Paris,  for  the  present. 
Madame  holds  a  little  reception  after  the  play  to-night. 
When  it  is  over,  Paujol  and  Mam'selle  Donny  quietly  leave 
Paris  ?  " 

"  Ah !  Madame  holds  a  reception,  does  she  ? "  the 
Prince  said,  grimly.  "  Very  well,  Pauline,  I  will  trouble 
you  no  further.  I  will  do  myself  the  honor  of  being  present 
at  madame's  little  reception  after  the  play.  Who  knows  when 
she  may  hold  another  ?  " 

He  laughed  inwardly — a  laugh  that  might  have  warned 
madame  had  she  heard  it.  But,  drifting  down  the  sunny 
Seine  to  the  music  of  the  band  of  the  National  Guard, 
madame  heard  nothing  except  the  full-blown  flatteries  of  her 
English  knight. 

It  was  a  charming  day-.— all  that  there  was  of  the  most  de 
lightful.  With  the  abandon  of  a  child,  madame  threw  her 
self  into  the  pleasure  of  the  moment,  and  lived,  while  she 
lived,  each  hour  to  the  utmost.  "  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry, 
for  to-morrow  you  die,"  was  the  key-note  of  her  life.  There 
was  nothing  new,  and  nothing  true,  but  the  sun  shone  with 
summer  warmth,  and  the  band  played  sweetest  music,  the 
champagne  and  truffles  were  of  the  best,  and  her  companion 
was  the  handsomest  man  in  Paris.  To-morrow  the  Prince 
Di  Venturini  would  shoot  him  or  run  him  through — it  was 
18 


410  CHEZ  MADAME. 

well ;  there  were  other  adorers  left ;  but  the  knowledge  added 
spice  to  the  wine  of  life  to-day. 

"  Thou  art  absent,  Eric,  mon  ami ! "  she  murmured,  tend 
erly.  "  Of  what  art  thou  thinking,  then  ?  Tired  already  of 
ourftte  day — which  I  am  enjoying  like  a  child,  since  I  am 
with  thee?" 

He  awoke  with  a  start. 

In  very  truth,  as  they  wandered  here  arm  in  arm,  his 
thoughts,  marvellous  to  relate,  had  strayed  backward  to — his 
wife  !  How  madame  would  have  laughed  had  she  known  it. 
Poor  little  soul — poor  little  Crystal  !  When  the  end  came 
to-morrow,  would  not  the  shot  that  finished  him  kill  her  also  ? 
One  creature  at  least  of  all  the  women  who  had  smiled  upon 
him  for  his  azure  eyes,  and  golden  hair,  and  Greek  face,  had 
loved  him.  Well,  in  this  world,  where  there  is  so  much  of 
empty  glitter,  so  little  real  gold,  even  that  was  something. 

The  brief,  bright  February  day  wore  on,  grew  gray  and 
overcast.  Madame  shivered  in  her  wraps,  and  turned  fret 
ful  and  cold.  They  hurried  back  to  the  steamer  and  re- 
embarked  for  Paris. 

"  We  will  have  a  storm  to-morrow — dost  thou  not  think  so, 
Eric?"  madame  asked,  wrapping  her  rose-lined  seal-skins 
closer  about  her,  and  looking  up  at  the  gray,  fast-drifting 
sky. 

He  followed  her  glance,  dreamily.  To-morrow  !  Where, 
this  time  to-morrow,  would  he  be  ?  In  this  world  or  the 
next  ? — if  there  be  a  next — he  thought. 

"Still  dreaming,  mon  cher?"  Felicia  said,  with  an  im 
patient  shrug.  "  I  begin  to  think  you  have  not  enjoyed 
our  excursion  after  all." 

He  answered  her,  as  he  knew  she  expected  to  be  an 
swered,  in  words  of  empty  compliment,  but  still  with  that 
absent,  dreaming  face.  His  wife  haunted  him  like  a  ghost, 
to-day.  Poor  little  Crystal ! 

Yes,  Uennison  was  right — he  had  been  a  brute  to  her. 
Only  seven  weeks  a  bride,  and  to-rnorrow  a  widow  !  Ah, 
yes  ;  it  was  hard  on  her  ! 

"Shall  we  see  you  at  my  rooms  to-night?  "  Felicia  asked 


CHEZ  MADAME.  4!  I 

"  Yes — that  is,  no,  I  think  not.  I  have  an  engagement 
for  to-night  that  will  prevent  my  having  that  pleasure." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  They  stood  together  in  the 
chilly  twilight  at  madame's  door. 

"  Then  this  is  really  good-night?" 

"  This  is  really  good-night." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  in  its  perfectly  fitting  gray  glove, 
and  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment.  There  was  a 
half  smile  on  her  lips — so,  without  a  word,  black  eyes  and 
blue  met,  in  one  long,  farewell  glance. 

"  Mafoi !  It  is  a  thousand  pities  to  kill  anything  half  so 
handsome  !  "  madame  was  thinking.  "  Well — he  has  helped 
to  amuse  me  for  four  weeks.  What  more  can  one  ask  ?  " 

"  Does  she  know  ?  "  Eric  was  musing,  "  but  of  course  she 
does.  Also,  of  course,"  rather  bitterly  this,  "she  does  not 
care.  It  is  only  one  more  lover,  growing  wearisome,  and 
safely  out  of  the  way." 

"  Good-night,  then,  mon  ami,"  madame  said,  softly,  "  and 
au  revoir ! " 

"  Good-night,  Felicia,''  he  answered,  "  until  we  meet 
again  !  " 

And  then  he  was  gone,  a  smile  on  his  blonde  face,  and  those 
two  had  looked  at  each  other  for  the  last  time  on  earth. 

Four  hours  later,  and  the  glittering  rooms  of  Madame 
Felicia  were  rilled  with  a  very  brilliant  throng.  The  best 
men  in  Paris,  the  handsomest  and  wittiest  women  met  there. 
And  there,  when  the  reception  was  at  its  highest,  the  con 
versation  at  its  gayest,  the  music  and  laughter  at  their  liveliest, 
came  M.  le  Prince  Di  Venturing 

Not  unexpected.  "Who  has  been  here,  Pauline?" 
madame  had  demanded,  when  under  the  hands  of  her  maid, 
at  the  dressing-room  of  the  Varieties ;  and  the  answer  had 
been  prompt,  "M.  le  Prince,  madame." 

"  Ah  !  and  you  told  him—" 

"  That  you  had  gone  to  Asnieres  for  the  day,  with  mtlor, 
inadame." 

Mad  in  :e  laughed. 

"  How  truthful  you  grow,  petite.  And  M.  le  Prince — what 
said  he  ?  ' 


412  CHEZ  MADAME. 

"  Nothing,  madame  ;  but  that  he  would  see  you  later  at 
the  reception." 

So  madame  knew  he  was  coming,  and  was  prepared  for  all 
chances.  War  or  peace — she  was  equal  to  either  fate,  only 
a  trifle  curious.  Others  were  curious,  too  ;  that  little  con 
tretemps  at  the  bal  d'opera,  quiet  as  it  had  been  kept,  was 
known,  and  people  shrewdly  suspected  that  Di  Venturini, 
noted  duelist  and  fire-eater,  would  not  let  the  matter  drop 
there.  How  would  he  meet  madame  ? 

He  made  his  way  slowly  through  the  rooms,  and  met  her 
with  suave  and  polished  courtesy,  told  her  of  his  journey,  of 
his  health,  hoped  she  had  amused  herself  well  in  his  absence, 
lingered  half  an  hour  among  the  guests,  and  then,  with  an 
elaborate  apology  for  his  early  departure,  went  away. 

By  one  o'clock  the  rooms  were  empty,  the  lights  out. 
Madame  valued  her  good  looks  and  lustrous  eyes  too  highly 
to  keep  very  late  hours.  Paujol  had  quitted  his  post,  Pauline 
had  disrobed  her  mistress  of  silks  and  laces,  and  substituted 
a  dressing-gown.  In  her  room  Felicia  sat,  smoking  two  or 
three  nerve-soothing  cigarettes  before  going  to  bed.  In  the 
boudoir  without  Pauline  sat,  waiting,  half-asleep,  with  her 
mistress'  night  draught  of  spiced  wine  and  eggs  on  the  table 
before  her.  Madame  often  sat  dozing  and  dreaming  over 
her  cigarettes  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  while  the  girl  waited. 
So  to-night  she  lay  luxuriously  back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes 
closed,  the  rose-scented  smoke  curling  upward,  when  a  man 
made  his  way  noiselessly  into  the  boudoir  from  the  street. 
He  glanced  at  the  sleeping  Pauline,  at  the  waiting  night 
draught,  and  passed  on  into  the  dressing-room,  into  the  bed 
room,  and  so  came,  still  noiselessly,  upon  madame. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  upon  her.  She  had 
not  heard  him,  but  some  baleful,  mesmeric  influence  warned 
her  he  was  there.  She  sat  up  suddenly,  opened  her  eyes, 
and  looked  full  into  the  yellow  face  of  Prince  Di  Ventu 
rini. 

For  a  second  there  was  silence.  She  was  a  plucky  little 
woman,  without  a  nerve  about  her,  and  uttered  no  word  or 
sound.  She  looked  at  him  straight,  silent,  then  :  "  Monsieur 
the  prince." 


CHEZ  MADAME.  413 

"  At  your  service,  madame.  I  trust  I  have  not  too  greatly 
disturbed  you  ?  " 

A  mocking  smile  was  on  his  lips.  She  looked  at  him  dis 
dainfully. 

"  You  have  not  disturbed  me  at  all.  For  a  moment,  I 
confess,  I  took  you  for  a  burglar,  but  my  nerves  are  good. 
What  was  Paujol  about  that  you  entered  unannounced  ?  " 

"  Paujol  was  asleep  in  his  loge." 

"  And,  Pauline  ?  " 

"  Pauline  is  asleep  also  in  your  boudoir.  It  is  past  two, 
madame." 

"  And  a  very  late  hour  for  M.  Di  Venturini's  visit.  Could 
it  not  have  been  deferred  until  to-morrow,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  It  could  not,  madame.  By  to-morrow  I  shall  be  across 
the  frontier,  and  very  far  from  Paris." 

"  Ah,  I  understand ! "  she  looked  at  him  unflinchingly. 
"  You  mean  to  kill  Lord  Dynely  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  kill  Lord  Dynely.  Such  an  insult  as  he 
offered  me  can  only  be  wiped  out  in  blood.  I  regret  that 
madame  must  lose  her  lover,  but — " 

"  Pray,  no  apologies,  M.  le  Prince  !  "  madame  answered, 
with  perfect  sang-froid ;  "  he  was  beginning  to  bore  me. 
Grand  passions  are  always  in  bad  form,  and  poor  boy,  he 
was  ludicrously  in  earnest.  Well,  monsieur,  as  you  depart 
to-morrow,  I  suppose  I  must  give  you  an  audience,  even  at 
this  improper  hour,  and  in  this  apartment,  or — shall  we  adjourn 
to  the  boudoir  ?  " 

He  laughed  derisively. 

"  It  shocks  madame' s  delicacy  then,  that  I  have  intruded 
here.  A  thousand  pardons,  ma  belle.  Where,  may  I  ask, 
when  he  paid  his  last  visit,  did  you  receive  the  painter,  M. 
Gordon  Caryll  ?  " 

She  never  flinched.     He  knew  that  then. 

"  He  was  your  husband,  was  he  not  ?  And  one  does  not 
stand  on  ceremony  with  one's  husband.  You  see,  madame, 
I  know  all ! " 

She  smiled — a  smile  that  fanned  his  jealous  anger  into 
fury. 

"  And  madame's  daughter,  that  she  keeps  caged  up  like  a 


414  CHEZ  MADAME. 

wild  animal — what  of  her  ?  You  see  I  know  that  also.  And 
all  the  lies  madame  has  been  telling  me  from  the  first — what 
of  them  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  them.  And  lies  is  an  ugly  word  to  use  to  a 
lady." 

"  Diable  !  do  you  sit  there  and  mock  at  me  !  Do  you  sit 
there  and  deny  this  ?  " 

*'  I  deny  nothing,  monsieur.  I  affirm  nothing.  M.  le 
Prince  will  believe  precisely  what  he  pleases." 

"  And  do  you  think — do  you  for  a  moment  think,  I  will 
marry  you  after  all  this  ?  You,  the  cast-off  wife  of  this  man 
Caryll.  Yon,  the  mother  of  this  girl — " 

"  Stay  !  M.  le  Prince,"  Felicia  said,  with  one  flash  of  her 
yellow  black  eyes.  "You  have  said  quite  enough  !  No,  I 
do  not  think  you  will  marry  me.  I  would  not  marry  you, 
with  your  diabolical  temper  and  jealousy,  if  you  were  king  of 
Italy,  much  less  owner  of  a  beggarly  principality.  I  don't 
really  think  I  ever  meant  to  marry  you  at  all — you  are 
much  too  old,  and,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  too  ugly.  I  adore 
handsome  men — Gordon  Caryll  and  Lord  Dynely  are  that,  at 
least.  And  De  Vocqsal — you  remember  the  Austrian  mar 
quis,  I  think,  prince  ?  Yes — well,  De  Vocqsal  is  coming  to 
Paris  next  week,  and  is  more  urgent  than  ever  that  I  shall 
become  Madame  la  Marquise.  He  is  young,  he  is  handsome, 
he  has  fourteen  quarterings,  and  a  rent-roll  that  is  fabulous. 
He  never  calls  me  ugly  names,  and  is  much  too  gallant  a  gen 
tleman  to  intrude  into  a  lady's  chamber  at  two  in  the  morn 
ing  on  purpose  to  insult  her.  Here  is  your  ring,  prince ;  it 
never  fitted  from  the  first,  and  I  am  glad  to  be  rid  of  it.  It 
is  the  only  present  you  ever  gave  me,  so  I  have,  happily, 
nothing  to  return.  Now  let  me  say  good-night  and  bon  voy 
age,  for  I  am  really  very  sleepy." 

She  yawned  aloud,  as  she  removed  the  heavy  diamond 
from  her  finger  and  held  it  out  to  him. 

"  Good-night,  prince  ;  and  a  pleasant  trip  to  you  both — he, 
pauvre  enfant,  to  the  next  world,  and  you — to  Italy,  is  it  ? 
Take  your  ring,  monsieur,  and  go." 

He  took  it,  and  stood  looking  at  her,  his  face  cadaverous, 


CHEZ  MADAME.  4!  5 

his  eyes  like  coals.  "  You  tell  me  this  ?  You  mean  to 
marry  De  Vocqsal  ?  " 

"1  am  growing  tired  of  the  stage.  Even  that  palls.  Yes; 
I  shall  marry  De  Vocqsal,  prince,  and  become  a  fine  lady." 

"This  is  the  end,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  raon  Dieu  !  yes,  if  you  ever  mean  to  go.  How  can 
there  be  an  end  while  you  loiter  here  ?  Go  !  go  !  I  insist." 

He  laughed. 

"  I  go,  madame ;  pray  do  not  say  it  again.  Thanks  for 
your  good  wishes.  Accept  my  congratulations  beforehand. 
It  is  a  brilliant  destiny  to  be  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Vocq 
sal.  Good-night,  and  adieu." 

He  bowed  low,  and  was  gone — through  the  dressing-room, 
and  into  the  sitting-room  beyond.  Here,  Pauline,  still 
guarding  the  wine,  and  fast  asleep  now,  sat  in  the  dim  light. 
He  went  to  the  table,  something  between  his  fingers,  a  shin 
ing  globule,  and  dropped  it  into  the  glass.  The  bell  rang 
sharply  at  the  moment.  Pauline  started  up,  with  a  cry,  and 
Di  Venturini  vanished  through  the  outer  door. 

"  Madame  never  misses  her  night  draught,  so  Pauline  tells 
me,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  sardonic  smile,  as  he  leaped 
into  his  waiting  cab  ;  "  she  will  not  miss  it  to-night ;  and  once 
drank,  there  is  a  longer  journey  before  her  than  a  bridal  trip 
to  the  imperial  court  of  Francis  Joseph.  So  good-night  to 
you,  madame,  and  bon  voyage  ! " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  HOW   THE    NIGHT    FELL." 

ROM  the  window  of  her  room,  Crystal,  Lady 
Dynely,  watched  the  twilight  of  that  overcast  Feb 
ruary  day  close  down.  She  lay  on  a  broad,  low 
sofa,  half  buried  in  cushions,  her  small  face  gleam 
ing  out  like  marble  against  their  rose  tints,  the  large  blue 
eyes,  so  brilliant  with  happy  love-light  a  few  brief  weeks  ago, 
dim  with  watching  and  much  weeping  now. 

Outside  the  wind  was  rising.  The  trees  rocked  in  the  gale, 
the  darkness  deepened,  the  first  heavy  rain-drops  began  pat 
tering  against  the  glass.  Inside  the  gloom  deepened  also, 
until  the  little,  pale  face  was  barely  visible.  All  day  long 
she  had  been  alone,  sick  in  body,  sick  in  soul,  crushed  of 
heart.  Now  she  was  straining  her  ears,  for  the  first  sound  of 
that  familiar  step  on  the  stairs,  for  the  first  note  of  that  gay 
whistle,  with  which  he  was  wont  to  herald  his  coming.  To 
her  this  twilight  hour  was  the  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  for  it 
almost  invariably  brought  Eric,  to  dress  or  dine. 

Her  maid  entered  to  light  the  lamps,  but  the  soft  little 
voice  sent  her  away.  "Not  yet,"  she  said,  gently.  "  I  like 
the  dusk.  Has — has  my  lord  come  home  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord  has  not  come  home,"  the  Frenchwoman 
answered,  with  a  compassionate  glance  at  the  drooping  fig 
ure.  Alas !  was  not  my  lord's  defection  as  well  known  in 
the  servants'  hall  as  in  salon  or  chamber  ? 

Where  was  he  to-day? — the  child  wondered.  Where  was 
he  now?  Was  he  with  her? — that  wicked,  beautiful,  brown 
woman  ?  Oh  !  to  be  able  to  win  him  back,  her  very  own, 
her  husband,  and  hold  him  from  them  all !  Was  God  pun 
ishing  her  for  loving  too  greatly,  for  worshipping  the  creature 
instead  of  the  Creator  ?  She  did  not  know — it  might  be 


"HOW  THE  NIGHT  FELL." 

wicked — this  unreasoning  worship  of  hers  ;  but  wicked  or 
worthy,  it  would  last  until  her  life's  end.  She  could  see  her 
face  now  as  she  lay — the  room  was  lined  with  mirrors. 
What  a  pitiful,  pale  face  it  was  !  And  he  liked  rosy  bloom, 
peachy,  plentiful  flesh  and  blood.  The  dancing  woman  had 
these — she  had  nothing  left  but  the  moonlight  shadow  of  her 
pearl  face,  and  her  true  and  tender  heart.  Good  and  pleas 
ant  things,  but  not  likely  long  to  hold  a  sensuous,  change 
ful,  beauty-worshipping,  thoroughly  selfish  man.  Dimly  she 
knew  this,  and  with  a  half  sob,  buried  that  poor,  wasted  face 
in  her  hands.  He  had  fancied  her  from  the  first,  only  for 
her  pretty,  flower-like  looks  ;  let  her  lose  these  charms,  as 
she  was  losing  fast,  and  her  last  hold  on  her  husband's  heart 
was  gone. 

She  lay  thinking  this — thinking  so  intently,  that  she  did  not 
hear  the  door  pushed  gently  open,  and  a  tall  figure  come 
in.  It  came  softly  over,  and  knelt  on  one  knee  beside 
her,  and  so,  in  the  dusk  of  the  room,  looked  down  upon  the 
colorless,  wasted  face,  the  locked  hands,  from  which  the 
wedding  ring  hung  loose.  Suddenly  her  eyes  opened. 

"  It  is  I,  Crissy,"  he  said. 

The  bewildered  look  changed  to  one  of  electric  surprise 
and  joy.  She  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  held  him 
as  though  she  would  never  let  him  go. 

"  Poor  little  soul  !  "  he  said,  more  moved  than  he  cared 
to  show.  "  You  have  been  alone  all  day,  and  have  got  the 
horrors.  Were  there  none  of  them  here — my  mother — 
France — all  day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  both.  Your  mother  stayed  an  hour,  and  then  went 
to  make  some  calls  with  Terry.  France  stayed  and  read  to 
me  all  the  morning.  She  is  so  good — my  own  dear  France. 
They  are  all  good,  but — but,"  the  clinging  arms  close  to 
gether,  he  can  feel  her  passionate  heart  beat :  "  Oh,  my 
love  !  I  only  want  you. 

"  Poor  little  Chris  !  " 

It  is  all  he  can  say.     He  lays  his  face  beside  hers  for  a 

moment,  and  is  still.     He  is  thinking  of  this  time  to-morrow 

— he  knows  as  surely  as  that  he  rests  here,  that  the  bullet 

that  kills  him  will  end  her  life.     And  it  is  for  that  dark 

18* 


41 8  "HOW  THE  NIGHT  FELL" 

daughter  of  Herodias,  he  has  forsaken  her.  All  at  once  a 
loathing  of  Felicia,  of  himself,  comes  upon  him.  What  a 
black  and  brutal  wretch  he  is !  how  utterly  unworthy  of  this 
spotless  wife,  whose  heart  he  is  breaking.  If  the  past  could 
but  come  over  again  !  if  what  is  done  could  be  undone,  how 
differently  he  would  act,  how  happy  he  would  make  her. 
But  it  is  too  late  for  all  that — the  end  has  come. 

"  Crystal,"  he  says  gently,  "  I've  not  been  a  very  good 
sort  of  husband,  I'm  afraid — I  never  was  a  very  good  sort 
of  fellow  at  any  time.  I've  done  enough  to  forfeit  all  right 
to  your  love,  but — you  care  for  me  still  ?  " 

"  Care  for  you  !  "  she  whispered.  And  then  the  clinging 
grasp  tightens,  and  she  can  say  no  more. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  do,"  he  says,  with  a  stifled  sigh ;  "  it's 
awfully  good  of  you,  Chris,  for  I  have  been  a  brute,  that's 
the  truth.  And  look  here,  I  don't  mean  this  really,  you 
know,  but  if  anything  happened  ;  if" — with  a  slight  laugh — 
"  I  chanced  to  die,  for  instance — " 

But  she  interrupts  him  with  a  shrill  cry,  like  a  child  that 
has  been  struck. 

"  Eric  ! " 

"  Foolish  child  !  Do  I  look  like  dying  ?  It  is  only  a 
suppositious  case — let  me  put  it.  If  I  chanced  to  die,  say 
to-morrow,  you  would  forgive  me  all  my  wrongdoing,  my 
neglect?  You  would  not  have  one  hard  thought  of  me, 
would  you  ?  " 

She  half  raises  herself,  and  tries  to  look  at  him.  But,  still 
laughing,  he  holds  her  so  that  she  cannot  see  his  face. 
"  Answer,  sweetheart — would  you  ?  " 

"  I  never  had  one  hard  thought  of  you  in  all  my  life,  Eric, 
never,  so  I  could  have  nothing  to  forgive.  If  you  died"-  — 
she  catches  her  breath  with  a  sort  of  gasp  as  she  says  it — • 
"do  you  think  I  could  live?  Oh,  love,  that  is  all  past.  I 
can  never  have  any  life  now  apart  from  you  ! ' 

"  You  think  so,"  he  says,  uneasily ;  "  but  you  are  young, 
and — you  only  think  so." 

"  I  know  so,"  she  answers,  under  her  breath  ;  and  instinc 
tively  he  kjiows  it  too. 

"Well,"  he  says,  at  length,  after  a  long  pause,  "regrets 


"HOW  THE  NIGHT  FELL." 


419 


are  useless,  but  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  the  past  three  weeks 
could  come  over  again.  I  ought  to  have  made  you  happy, 
little  wife,  and  I  have  not.  If — if  the  time  is  given  me,  I 
swear  I  will.  Now,  let  me  go ;  I  have  letters  to  write,  and 
much  to  do  this  evening." 

"You  " — she  pauses,  and  looks  at  him  with  oh,  such  wist 
ful,  longing  eyes — "  you  are  going  out,  as  usual,  Eric  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  says,  smiling  down  upon  her.  "  I  am  going  to 
remain  in,  as  ////-usual,  Crystal.  Lie  here  until  dinner  is 
announced ;  I  will  write  my  letters  in  your  boudoir.  You 
know  I  must  always  be  alone  when  my  epistolatory  attacks 
come  on." 

He  unlooses  the  clasping  arms  and  goes.  And  Crystal 
nestles  dovni  among  her  pillows,  and  shuts  her  eyes  to  keep 
back  the  joyful  tears  that  come  to  women  alike  in  bliss  and 
in  pain.  Just  now  her  bliss  is  so  great,  that  it  is  almost 
pain  ;  she  cannot,  cannot  realize  it. 

He  passes  through  the  dressing-room,  into  the  pretty, 
mirror-lined,  satin-hung  nest  beyond,  that  is  Crystal's  sitting- 
room,  leaving  both  doors  ajar.  He  lights  the  lamps  himself, 
draws  pens,  ink,  and  paper  before  him,  and  sits  down  to 
write.  He  must  leave  a  few  parting  lines  with  Boville  for 
his  mother  and  Crystal  in  case  of  the  worst.  He  wishes  he 
had  made  a  will  to-day  instead  of  going  to  Asnieres,  but  it  is 
too  late  for  that.  The  title  and  estate  go  to  a  distant 
cousin  of  his  father's,  unless — yes,  there  is  one  unless.  It  is 
something  Crystal  has  never  spoken  of — he  thinks  himself  it 
is  unlikely. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  says,  under  his  breath.  "  I  hope  so,  for 
her  sake,  poor  little  soul.  It  will  console  her ;  and  dead  or 
alive,  a  fellow  likes  to  perpetuate  the  title." 

He  begins  his  mother's  letter  first.  It  will  be  the  easier. 
He  writes,  "  Hotel  du  Louvre,  February  26,  18 — .  My  dear 
mother,"  and  there  he  stops,  and  gnaws  the  gold  handle  ot 
his  pen,  and  pulls  his  amber  mustache,  and  stares  at  the 
blank  sheet  with  troubled  blue  eyes.  What  shall  he  say  ? 
It  will  almost  go  as  hard  with  her  as  with  Crystal.  Abso- 
utely  these  preliminaries  are  worse  than  the  thing  itself. 

The  minutes  tick  off — still  he  sits  and  stares  at  the  white 


42O  "HOW  THE  NIGHT  FELL." 

paper.  What  shall  he  say — how  shall  he  word  it?  Some 
fellows  have  a  knack  of  writing  things — he  has  none — never 
had.  Beauty  and  brains  don't,  as  a  rule,  travel  in  company. 
Eric,  Lord  Dynelv.  never  felt  the  want  of  the  latter — that 
refuge  of  the  destitute,  before.  By  Jove  !  What  shall  he 
say  to  her?  Then,  as  he  plunges  the  pen  in  desperation 
down  in  the  ink,  determined  to  say  something  or  perish,  the 
door  is  burst  suddenly  open,  and  Terry  Dennison  comes  im 
petuously  in.  Terry  Dennison,  flushed  of  face,  excited  of 
eye,  and  strides  up  to  him  at  once. 

"  Eric,  what  is  this  ?     Is  it  true  ?  " 

Eric  lays  down  his  pen,  and  flushes  also  with  haughty 
amaze  and  anger. 

"  Dennison  !  again  !  and  after  what  passed  between  us  the 
other  day." 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  let  that  stop  me  now  ?  "  Dennison 
bursts  forth,  excitedly.  "  Do  you  think  I  would  heed  any 
thing  you  may  have  said  at  such  a  time  as  this  ?  Is  it 
true  ?  " 

"Is  what  true?"  still  in  haughty  anger. 

"  Your  duel  with  Di  Venturini.  I  met  De  Concressault 
out  yonder,  and  he  dropped  a  hint,  but  would  not  speak 
plainly.  I  know  that  Di  Venturini  is  back,  I  heard  of  your 
rencontre  at  the  bal  masque,  and  I  feared  something  of  this. 
But  I  did  not  think  you  would  be  so  mad — yes,  so  mad, 
Dynely,  as  to  accept  his  challenge.  Tell  me,  is  it  true?" 

"It  is  quite  true.  May  I  inquire  in  what  way  it  concerns 
Mr.  Dennison  ?  " 

"  In  what  way  !  Great  Heaven  !  he  can  talk  to  me  like 
this.  In  what  way — his  murder — for  it  is  nothing  less. 
Eric,  I  say,  this  must  not  go  on." 

"  Indeed  ! " — with  a  sneer.  "  How  do  you  propose  to 
prevent  it  ?  " 

"I  will  give  information  to  the  police.  I  will — I  swear  ! 
If  I  can  stop  it  in  no  other  way,  the  gens-d'armes  shall  be 
on  the  ground  before  you.  Eric,  you  shall  not  fight  Di  Ven« 
turini ! " 

Eric  arose  to  his  feet,  that  lurid  light  of  anger  the  otheJ 
knew  so  well,  in  his  eyes. 


"HOW  THE  NIGHT  FELL."  421 

"You  dare  to  stand  there  and  tell  me  this!  Meddler! 
Fool !  If  you  are  a  coward  yourself,  do  you  think  to  make 
me  one  ?  Begone  !  and  interfere,  tell  the  police,  at  your 
peril.  By  George,  if  you  do,  when  the  prince  and  I  have 
met  elsewhere,  whichever  of  us  survives  shall  shoot  you  I " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence — Eric  livid  with  passion, 
Terry's  eyes  aflame,  his  breath  coming  quick  and  hard — then  : 

"You  mean  to  tell  me,  Dynely,  that  if  I  prevent  your 
meeting  to-morrow  you  will  meet  Di  Venturini  elsewhere  ?" 

"  So  surely  as  we  both  live  I  shall  meet  Di  Venturini 
when  and  where  he  pleases." 

"  But,  Heavens  and  earth,  Eric,  don't  you  know  he 
means  to  kill  you  ?  Don't  you  know  he  is  a  dead  shot,  and 
that  you  don't  stand  a  chance.  No,  by  Jove!  not  the 
shadow  of  a  chance.  A  duel !  why  this  will  not  be  a  duel, 
it  will  be  a  cold-blooded  murder." 

"  Call  it  by  what  name  you  please,  only  be  kind  enough 
to  go." 

"  Eric,  you  shall  not — you  shall  not  meet  the  prince. 
He  means  to  take  your  life ;  you  haven't  a  shadow  of  a 
chance,  I  repeat.  Oh  !  dear  old  fellow,  stop  and  think.  I 
don't  mind  what  you  say  to  me — I  don't  mean  to  be  med 
dlesome — I  don't  mean  to  quarrel  with  you.  Dear  old  boy, 
stop  and  think.  It  is  not  you  alone  Di  Venturini  will  kill — 
it  is  your  mother — it  is  your  wife." 

"  This  is  all  nonsense  !  "  Eric  cried,  angrily  and  impatiently 
— "  a  waste  of  time.  I  have  letters  to  write,  and  I  want 
to  get  to  bed  early  to-night.  If  you  talked  until  the  crack  of 
doom  you  couldn't  alter  things  one  iota.  Let  it  kill  whom  it 
may,  I  can't  and  won't  show  the  white  feather.  Di  Ven 
turini  has  challenged  me,  and  I  am  to  meet  him  at  day- 
dawn  to-morrow — that  is  as  fixed  as  fate.  He  means  to 
shoot  me,  I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt;  but  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  The  Dynelys  have  never  been  noted  for  rigid 
virtue  of  any  sort,  or  an  overstock  of  brains ;  but  at  least 
none  that  I  ever  heard  of  were  cowards.  I  won't  be  the 
first  to  disgrace  the  name.  Have  we  palavered  enough  over 
this,  or  has  more  to  be  said  ?  I  warn  you,  I  won't  listen. 
If  you  will  not  leave  me,  then  I  shall  leave  you." 


422  "HOW  THE  NIGHT  FELL." 

He  gathered  up  his  papers  angrily  to  go.  Dennison  ad 
vanced  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Eric  !  if  you  have  no  mercy  on  yourself,  have  mercy  on 
your  wife  and  mother.  It  will  kill  them — that  you  know  as 
well  as  I.  Let  me  meet  this  Italian  cutthroat  in  your  place. 
I'm  a  better  shot  than  you,  and  he'll  never  know  the — " 

"  You're  a  fool,  Terry  !"  Eric  cried,  throwing  off  the  hand. 
"  You  talk  like  a  puling  baby.  Letjjw/  meet  Di  Venturini 
in  my  place,  and  I  sneak  at  home  like  a  whipped  school-boy, 
behind  the  petticoats  of  my  wife  and  mother  !  For  Heaven's 
sake  get  out,  and  stop  talking  such  infernal  rot  !  " 

Terry  drew  back,  and  folded  his  arms. 

"  It  is  inevitable  then,  Dynely  ?  You  mean  to  meet  the 
prince  ?  " 

"  It  is  inevitable,  Dennison.  If  your  head  had  not  been 
made  of  wood,  you  might  have  known  that  from  the  first.  I 
shall  meet  Di  Venturini  as  surely  as  the  sun  will  shine  in 
the  sky  to-morrow." 

A  sort  of  smile  crossed  Dennison' s  face  at  the  simile.  The 
rain  was  pelting  against  the  windows  hard. 

"  The  sun  will  not  shine  in  the  sky  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
under  his  breath.  Then  aloud  :  "  And  you  are  quite  sure, 
old  boy,  that  you  know  the  prince  means  to  kill  you  ?  " 

"I  am  quite  sure  he  means  to  try,"  Eric  answered,  coolly  ; 
' '  I  am  not  at  all  so  sure  that  he  will  succeed.  Now,  then, 
Terry,  I'll  forgive  you  everything — everything  on  my  word, 
if  you'll  only  take  yourself  off  at  once,  and  stop  being  aeon- 
founded  bore  !  When  a  man  expects  to  be  shot  at  break  of 
day,  he  naturally  has  no  end  to  do  the  night  be " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence.  With  a  face  of  white 
honor,  Dennison  was  pointing  to  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
room.  Eric  whirled  round,  and  a  cry  broke  from  his  lips. 
There,  in  her  wrapper,  her  face  likes  now,  her  eyes  all  wild 
and  wide,  her  lips  apart,  his  wife  stood.  She  had  heard 
every  word. 

"  Great  Heaven  !  Crystal  !"  Eric  cried. 

He  sprang  toward  her.  She  was  swaying  like  a  reed  in 
the  wind,  but  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  blind,  bewildered 
eyes  turn  toward  him,  the  arms  instinctively  outstretched.  It 


"HOW  THE  NIGHT  FELL."  423 

was  the  doing  of  a  second — before  he  could  reach  her,  she 
had  fallen  heavily  forward  on  her  face,  a  stream  of  bright  red 
blood  flowing  from  her  lips. 

The  two  men  stood  petrified,  horror-stricken.  It  was  all 
so  sudden  that  for  an  instant  it  stunned  them.  Then  Eric 
awoke.  With  a  horrible  oath  he  sprang  forward,  seized  Den- 
nison  by  the  throat,  and  struck  him  with  all  his  might  across 
the  face. 

"  It  is  all  your  doing,  you  fool !  You  meddlesome,  thick- 
witted  fool !  If  you  have  killed  her,  by I'll  have  your 

life  ! " 

He  flung  him  from  him  like  a  madman.  By  laying  hold 
of  the  wall  Dennison  alone  saved  himself  from  falling.  The 
onslaught  had  been  so  swift,  so  unexpected,  that  he  had 
had  no  chance  to  defend  himself  at  all. 

Now  he  was  forced  to  stand  for  an  instant  to  regain  his 
breath.  The  flush  had  faded  from  his  face,  leaving  it  ghastly, 
only  where  the  red,  cruel  mark  of  the  brutal  blow  lay.  Then 
he  plunged  blindly  after  his  assailant,  but  in  that  instant 
Eric  had  stooped,  raised  his  wife  in  his  arms,  and  passed 
with  her  into  the  inner  room. 

Dennison  drew  back,  laid  his  arm  against  the  wall,  and  his 
face  upon  it.  So  he  stood  for  a  moment — a  moment  that 
was  an  age  of  agony.  Then  he  turned,  and  silently  and 
swiftly  went  out  into  the  melancholy,  rain-beaten  night. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"LOYAL   AU   MORT." 

JTRAIGHT  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  straight 
to  the  rooms  of  Lady  Dynely,  Terry  went.  Crystal 
might  be  dying — was,  no  doubt,  and  he  would  be 
before  any  of  Eric's  messengers  to  break  the  news 
to  Eric's  mother.  His  teeth  were  set,  his  fists  unconsciously 
clenched,  his  blue  eyes  aflame.  The  blow,  that  for  a  mo 
ment  had  blinded  him,  burned  on  his  face  still,  like  a  brand 
of  fire — the  savage  that  is  latent  in  all  men,  in  far  better  and 
deeper-cultured  men  than  this  big  dragoon,  was  uppermost 
now.  Eric  had  struck  him,  basely  and  dastardly  struck  him. 
If  by  lifting  his  finger,  he  could  have  saved  Eric's  life,  in  this 
first  blind  fury  he  would  not  have  lifted  it. 

He  strode  into  her  private  sitting-room,  and  inquired  for 
Lady  Dynely.  Yes,  my  lady  was  at  home,  had  but  just 
come,  was  on  the  verge  of  again  going  out,  but  was  at  home. 
She  would  be  with  Mr.  Dennison  directly. 

She  was  with  him  as  the  servant  said  it.  She  came  rustling 
in,  her  pale,  flowing  silks  sweeping  behind  her,  a  cloak  of 
velvet  and  fur  falling  off  her  shoulders.  Her  dainty  Parisian 
bonnet  was  on  her  head,  a  flurried,  wild  look  on  her  ever 
pale  face,  an  excited  sparkle  in  her  light  blue  eyes.  As  she 
entered,  Dennison  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  recollection,  of  the 
very  first  time  he  had  seen  her  as  she  entered  the  Irish 
cabin  in  the  wet  twilight,  to  change  all  his  life  for  evermore. 
Had  she  changed  it  for  the  better  ?  If  she  had  left  him  to 
grow  up  ignorant,  and  poor,  and  unlettered,  among  his 
mother's  people,  there  in  the  wild  Claddagh  of  Gal  way,  might 
he  not  have  been  a  happier  man  to-night  ? 

"  Terry,"  she  cried,  coming  excitedly  forward,  both  hands 
outstretched,  "what  is  this  I  hear?  I  was  just  starting  for 


"LOYAL  AU  MORT: 


42  5 


the  Louvre  as  you  were  announced.  Half  an  hour  ago  I 
was  at  Lady  Clarendon's  reception,  and  there  the  rumor 
reached  me  of  this  horrible  affair.  Oh,  Terry !  speak  and 
tell  me,  it  is  only  a  rumor,  that  he  will  not  be  so  mad,  so 
wicked,  so  utterly  reckless,  as  to  risk  his  life." 

So  !  that  was  told !  He  drew  in  his  breath  hard.  All 
must  come  out  now. 

"  Of  what  do  you  speak,  Lady  Dynely  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?  Oh,  then  it  must  be  false.  If  it 
were  true  you  would  be  the  very  first  Eric  would  tell. 
Wretched  boy !  he  is  always  worrying  me  to  death  of  late — 
yes,  ever  since  his  return  last  August.  And  now  his  neglect 
of  his  wife,  poor  little  creature,  and  his  running  after  this 
horrible  dancer.  Oh  !  what  a  trouble  sons  are  to  mothers. 
Terry.  I  heai\l  a  shocking  story  whispered  about  at  Lady 
Clarendon's.  Captain  de  Concressault  dropped  in  there  for 
ten  minutes,  and  it  seems  he  set  the  ball  going.  But,  it  can 
not  be  true." 

"  Captain  de  Concressault  is  a  good  one  to  keep  a  secret," 
thought  Terry,  grimly. 

"  What  was  it  De  Concressault  said?"  inquired  he,  aloud. 

"  Oh  !  a  most  scandalous  thing.  It  would  break  my 
heart  if  I  thought  it  true.  That  Eric  went  to  a  masked  ball, 
at  one  of  those  places  here,  with  that  woman,  Felicia  ;  that 
there  he  met  Prince  Di  Venturini,  who  had  followed  to  watch 
them,  that  a  dreadful  quarrel  ensued,  and  that  Eric  knocked 
the  prince  down  again  and  again.  Every  one  was  horrified 
— naturally.  And  I  left  immediately  and  came  here,  to 
change  my  dress  and  go  direct  to  the  Louvre.  Terry,  you 
are  silent;  you  look — oh!  good  Heaven  !  Terry,  don't  tell 
me  it  is  true  ! " 

But  Dennison  stood  silent,  his  head  bent  down,  his  eyes 
averted,  his  hat,  which  he  had  not  yet  removed,  shading  his 
bruised  and  discolored  face. 

'  Terry,  I  command  you  !  Speak  and  tell  me — is  this 
story  true  ?" 

"  Lady  Dynely — I  am  afraid  it  is." 

She  laid  her  hand  over  her  heart,  turning  ghastly  pale. 

'*  And  Eric  went  there  with  that  woman,  his  wife  ailing  at 


426  "LOYAL  AU  MORT." 

home — went  to  that  wicked  dancing-place,  and  insulted 
Prince  Di  Venturini?" 

"  My  lady — yes." 

He  spoke  reluctantly,  each  admission  dragged  from  him. 
Falsehoods  came  never  readily  to  Dennison,  and  then,  of 
what  use  were  falsehoods  here  ?  She  must  know. 

"  He  insulted  Di  Venturini,  a  man  who  fights  duels  upon 
the  smallest  provocation — who  will  take  no  insults  from  any 
one.  Terry,  tell  me — tell  me  the  truth,  I  command  !  Has 
Di  Venturini  challenged  Eric  ?" 

"  Lacly  Dynely,  I  am  sorry,  sorry  to  have  to  say  once 
more — yes." 

Her  blue  eyes  dilated,  the  last  trace  of  color  faded  from 
her  face. 

"And  Eric?"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  whisper.  "Eric 
has " 

"Accepted.  There  was  no  alternative.  I  am  very  sorry," 
Dennison  said  again. 

She  sat  down  suddenly  on  a  sofa  near,  so  ghastly  that  he 
drew  close  in  alarm. 

"  Lady  Dynely,  good  Heaven  !  you  are  going  to  faint. 
Shall  I " 

She  motioned  him  to  be  still,  the  sick,  giddy  faintness  that 
was  like  death,  holding  her  speechless. 

"  Wait,"  she  said,  with  a  gasp.  "  I — I  won't  faint.  Oh, 
Terry  !  What  is  this  ?  Oh,  my  Eric  !  my  son,  my  son." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  was  still,  whether 
crying  or  praying  Terry  could  not  tell.  He  stood  uneasily 
looking  at  her,  feeling  horribly  uncomfortable,  not  knowing 
in  the  least  what  to  do  or  say. 

She  looked  up  after  a  moment.  Her  eyes  were  r-.id  and 
inflamed,  but  she  was  not  crying. 

"  When  do  they  meet  ?     The  truth,  I  insist." 

"  To-morrow  morning  at  daybreak,"  he  answered>  almost 
under  his  breath. 

"And  they  fight  with  pistols?"  she  shuddered,  convul 
sively,  from  head  to  foot,  as  she  said  it. 

"  With  pistols." 

u  And  Di  Venturini  will  kill  him  ! "  she  cried  out,  rising 


"LOYAL  AU  MO.RT."  427 

up.  "  Oh,  I  see  it  all  !  I  see  it  all !  They  will  meet  there 
in  some  lonely  place  at  day-dawn,  and  my  boy,  my  darling, 
my  Eric,  will  be  foully  murdered.  Oh,  Heaven,  have 
mercy  on  me  and  on  him  ! " 

She  flung  herself  once  more  upon  the  sofa,  her  whole 
body  convulsively  quivering. 

"  He  will  kill  him  !  he  will  kill  him.  This  time  to-morrow 
my  darling  will  be  dead  !  Oh.  I  cannot  bear  it !  I  will  not 
bear  it ! "  She  started  up  madly.  "  This  is  murder  ! "  she 
cried  shrilly ;  "  foul,  cold-blooded  murder.  It  must  be 
stopped." 

He  stood  silent,  thrilled  to  the  soul  by  her  agony.  But 
again — what  could  he  say,  what  could  he  do  ? 

"  Terry  ! "  she  cried,  seizing  him  by  the  arm  and  shaking 
him  in  her  passion,  "  why  don't  you  say  something?  Why 
don't  you  do  something?  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  to 
do  ?  Oh,  you  don't  care !  No  one  cares.  You  stand 
there  like  a  stone  and  tell  me  that  to-morrow  at  daybreak 
my  boy  is  to  be  murdered.  I  asked  you  to  take  care  of 
him,  to  keep  him  from  danger,  and  you  promised,  and  this 
is  how  you  keep  your  word.  You  stand  here  safe  and  well, 
and  to-morrow — oh,  my  heart !  to-morrow  Eric  is  to  be 
shot !  Go ! "  She  flung  him  from  her  with  passionate 
strength.  "  You  are  a  coward  and  a  traitor !  You  swore 
to  me,  and  you  have  broken  your  oath.  You  might  have 
prevented  this,  and  you  have  not.  Terry  Dennison,  I  hate 
you ! " 

He  put  out  his  hand  blindly,  as  though  to  ward  off  a 
blow. 

"  For  God's  sake,  mother  !  "  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Don't  call  me  mother  !"  she  cried,  in  her  insane  frenzy. 
"  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you.  I  wish  I  had  left  you  there, 
in  Gahvay,  to  live  and  die.  Oh !  you  might  have  saved 
him — you  might — you  might — and  you  would  not.  You 
come  here  and  tell  me  that  to-morrow  you  will  stand  by  and 
see  him  shot.  But  you  shall  not !  "  she  shrieked.  "  I  will 
go  myself — now — this  instant,  to  Eric,  to  Di  Venturini,  and 
on  my  knees  I  will  beg  for  my  darling's  life.  I  know  the 
prince — he  will  listen  to  me — to  me,  a  most  wretched 


428  "LOYAL   AU  MORT" 

mother."  Her  horror,  her  fear,  had  driven  her  for  the 
moment  absolutely  distraught.  She  would  have  rushed  from 
the  room  but  that  Dennison  caught  her. 

"  Lady  Dynely,  you  must  not  go.  For  pity's  sake  stay 
a  moment  longer.  Eric  will  never  forgive  you  if  you  do  this." 

"  He  will  not  be  alive  to-morrow  morning  if  I  do  not  do 
it !  Let  me  go,  'Ferry  Dennison  !  You  will  not  lift  a  finger 
to  save  him — your  own  brother — so  I  must.  Let  me  go." 

But  he  held  her  fast. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said ;  and  something  in  his  tone, 
in  his  face,  even  through  all  her  madness,  made  her  stop. 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  all  wild  and  wide  with  terror, 
and  for  the  first  time  saw  the  bruised  and  swollen  disfigura 
tion  of  his  face.  She  snatched  off  his  hat  and  looked  at 
him  full. 

"  Terry  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  what  is  this  ?  " 

He  turned  crimson — a  burning,  shameful  crimson,  from 
brow  to  chin.  In  those  supreme  moments  of  life,  the  per 
ceptive  faculties  are  preternaturally  sharpened — like  a  flash 
the  truth  burst  upon  her. 

"  Terry ! "  she  cried  out  in  new  horror,  "  Eric  has  done 
this !  " 

He  did  not  speak — he  could  not.  Like  inspiration,  some 
thing  of  the  real  truth  came  to  her. 

"  You  and  he  have  quarrelled,  and  he  has  struck  you  ! 
Terry  ! — you — you  have  not  struck  him  back  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  hoarsely  and  breathlessly,  "  I  did  not  strike 
him  back.  Mother,  be  silent !  the  devil  has  been  in  me 
strongly  enough  once  to-night.  Let  me  forget  this  blow  if  I 
can." 

She  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  kissed  the  brutal 
mark  of  her  darling's  handiwork. 

"  Forgive  him,  Terry  !"  she  said.  "  He  is  your  brother — 
your  only  brother,  and  he  does  not  know  what  he  does. 
Forgive  him,  have  pity  on  me.  In  some  way  you  can,  you 
must,  prevent  this  duel.  He  is  all  I  have.  I  have  loved 
him  so  fondly — oh  !  with  more  than  mother's  love — I  have 
been  so  proud  of  him,  of  his  beauty,  of  his  grace,  of  his  tal 
ents.  Everywhere  he  has  gone  people  have  loved  and 


"LOYAL  AU  MORT."  429 

admired  him.  He  is  all  I  have — all  I  ever  had.  My  heart 
is  wrapped  up  in  him.  He  worries  me — he  troubles  me, 
but  I  could  not  live  if  I  lost  him.  Terry  !  Terry  !  pity  me 
— pity  him.  He  is  so  young — life  is  so  bright  for  him.  Pity 
his  wife,  whom  you  love — and  in  some  way — oh,  in  any 
way  !  save  his  life." 

Her  arms  held  him  close — her  pale  passionate  face,  over 
which  the  tears  poured,  was  upheld  to  his.  So  in  the  su 
preme  selfishness  of  mother  love,  she  pleaded.  In  some 
way  she  instinctively  felt  that  her  only  earthly  hope  was  in 
Terry  Dennison. 

He  stood  still — a  horrible  struggle  going  on  within  him. 
He  had  gone  to  Eric  in  all  good  faith  and  fellowship,  ready 
to  take  his  place  to-morrow  before  Di  Venturini's  pistol. 
And  Eric's  answer  had  been  a  blow.  No  man  had  ever  struck 
him  before — no  man  ever  was  likely  to  again.  It  burned 
like  a  brand  at  this  moment.  And  he  was  called  upon  to 
forgive  this — this  and  the  hundred  other  insults  Eric  Dynely 
had  offered  him,  and  at  all  risks  save  his  life. 

"  Terry,"  Lady  Dynely  said,  still  holding  him  close,  "  do 
you  remember  that  afternoon  last  August  ?  We  were  alone 
together  at  Dynely,  and  I  told  you  your  story.  I  need  never 
have  told  you — who  was  there  to  make  me  ?  You  knelt  at 
my  feet,  and  I  put  my  arms  around  you,  and  kissed  you  for 
the  first  time.  I  loved  you  then — I  have  loved  you  since,  but 
not — oh,  no  !  not  as  1  loved  him.  Do  you  remember  what  I 
said  to  you  that  day  ?  Do  you  remember  what  you  promised 
me?" 

He  does  not  answer.  She  does  not  know  what  she  is  ask 
ing  him  to  do.  She  does  not  know  of  the  struggle  that  is 
going  on  in  the  heart,  beating  in  such  hard  throbs  against  her 
own. 

"  I  recall  it  all,  as  though  it  were  this  moment,"  she  softly 
went  on.  "I  said  to  you,  'Be  a  friend,  a  brother  to  my 
boy.  He  is  not  like  you — he  is  reckless  and  extravagant, 
easily  led,  self-willed,  and  wild.  He  will  go  wrong,  and  you 
must  be  his  protector.  Let  nothing  he  ever  says,  nothing 
he  ever  does,  tempt  you  to  anger,  tempt  you  to  desert  him. 
Promise  me  that.'  " 


430  "LOYAL  AU  MORT» 

Still  silent — still  with  that  strange,  rigid  look  on  his  face, 
that  half  frightens  her  in  the  midst  of  her  supremely  selfish 
pleadings,  and  which  she  does  not  understand. 

"You  knelt  down,  "  she  went  on,  "you  kissed  my  hand  ; 
and  kneeling  there,  alone  with  God  and  me,  this  is  what  you 
said : 

" '  Nothing  Eric  can  ever  say,  can  ever  do,  will  tempt  me 
to  anger — that  I  swear.  For  his  sake  and  for  yours,  I  will 
do  all  mortal  man  can  do.  You  have  been  the  good  angel 
of  my  life — I  would  be  less  than  man  if  I  ever  forgot  it.' 
You  promised  that,  Terry — the  time  has  come  now  for  you 
to  keep  your  word." 

Still  silence.  Oh  !  if  he  would  but  speak,  if  that  dark, 
strange,  rigid  look  would  but  leave  his  face. 

"  My  Terry  !  my  Terry!0  she  whispered,  "you  have  been 
brave  and  noble  in  the  past.  For  sake  of  him  and  me,  you 
gave  up  name,  fortune,  love — for  sake  of  him  and  me,  I  call 
upon  you  now  in  some  way  to  save  his  life." 

He  drew  a  long,  hard  breath,  and  looked  down  upon  her. 
Did  she  know  what  she  asked  ?  No,  he  saw  she  did  not. 
All  the  same  though,  so  that  he  saved  Eric,  it  didn't  much 
matter. 

"Terry,  speak  to  me,"  she  pleaded,  "don't  stand  and 
look  at  me  like  this.  Oh  !  if  you  ever  loved  me,  if  you  ever 
loved  Crystal,  save  him  who  is  the  life  of  our  lives.  Terry,  I 
call  upon  you — save  Eric  ! " 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  Say  no  more,  mother.  If  mortal  man  can  do  it,  I  will 
save  Eric." 

She  gave  a  great  sob  of  unutterable  joy  and  relief,  laid  her 
face  on  his  shoulder  and  was  still. 

"  You  need  have  no  fear,"  he  went  on  ;  "  Eric  shall  not 
fight  Di  Venturini.  And  now,  too  much  time  has  been 
spent  here  already.  You  must  go  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre 
at  once.  Crystal  is  ill." 

"111?" 

Rapidly  and  concisely  he  narrated  his  visit  to  Eric,  only 
suppressing  Eric's  own  insulting  language — how  Crystal  had 
overheard,  and  the  result.  At  any  other  time  Lady  Dynely 


"LOVAL  AU  MORT."  43! 

would  have  been  unspeakably  horrified — now  the  greater 
horror  had  swallowed  up  all  lesser. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  go  to  her  at  once.  Oh,  poor  child  ! 
Terry,  will  you  tell  me — how  do  you  mean  to  save  Eric  ?  " 

He  smiled. 

"  You  will  learn  later.  At  present  do  not  in  any  way  let 
Eric  suspect  that  you  know  anything.  And — that  my  plan  to 
save  him  may  succeed — you  must  give  him  an  opiate  to-night." 

"An  opiate?" 

"  He  must  be  made  to  sleep  beyond  the  hour  of  meeting, 
else,  not  even  Crystal's  death  could  keep  him  away.  To 
steady  his  nerves  for  to-morrow  some  sleep  will  be  necessary 
— he  will,  therefore,  probably  retire  early.  In  fact,  you 
must  see  that  he  does,  and  induce  him  to  take  a  glass  of 
wine,  or  beer,  and  administer  an  opiate  in  the  drink  that  will 
hold  him  for  eight  hours  at  least.  All  depends  upon  that." 

"  Oh,  I  can  do  that.     I  have  done  it  often  before." 

"Very  well;  that  is  all  you  are  to  do.  Now  go  quickly 
to  the  Louvre,  and  perform  your  part.  In  about  two  hours 
I  will  call  to  see  how  Crystal  is.  I  have  other  business  of 
importance  meantime.  For  the  present  good-by." 

********** 

The  last  act  of  "  La  Sorciere  d'Or  "  is  over,  the  ballet  has 
begun,  and  a  group  of  gentlemen  are  loitering  about  the 
vestibule  of  the  theatre,  not  quite  sure  whether  they  will  re 
turn  to  their  stalls  for  the  great  display  of  legs  and  lime 
light,  or  go  virtuously  home  to  bed.  Mr.  Boville  is  among 
them,  and  Mr.  Boville  is  debating  within  himself  the  advisa 
bility  of  a  little  game  of  lansquenet,  as  a  soothing  prepara 
tion  for  slumber,  when  a  man  strides  hurriedly  up  and  lays 
his  hand  heavily  on  his  shoulder. 

"Boville!  I  thought  I  would  find  you  here.  Will  you 
leave  the  theatre  and  come  with  me  ?  " 

Boville  swings  round  and  faces  his  interrogator. 

"You,  Dennison  !  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow.  But  what 
the  deuce  is  the  matter  ?  On  my  word  you  look  like  your 
own  ghost." 

"  Come  with  me,"  Dennison  replies,  hurriedly,  and  Boville 
(inks  his  arm  through  the  dragoon's  and  goes. 


432  "LOYAL  AU  MORT" 

Without  a  word,  Terry  leads  him  away  from  the  glalre  and 
gas-light  glitter  of  the  thronged  boulevards  to  some  distant, 
dimly-lighted,  deserted  street. 

Without  a  word  Boville  follows.  This  is  something  seri 
ous,  he  feels.  Has  the  duel  got  wind  ?  Dennison  and 
Dynely  are  relatives,  Boville  hazily  recollects — relatives  of 
some  sort ;  he  is  not  quite  clear  about  it.  No  doubt  Den 
nison  has  come  to  speak  of  the  duel  ;  but  why  with  that 
face? 

"  Boville,"  Terry  abruptly  begins,  "Lord  Dynely  and 
Prince  Di  Venturini  fight  to-morrow,  do  they  not,  and  you 
are  Dynely' s  second  ?  " 

"  Weluctantly — yes.  It's  a  bad  business,  old  boy.  Dynely 
hasn't  a  ghost  of  a  chance,  and  so  I've  told  him.  But  a 
wilful  man — you  know  the  proverb.  Besides,  weally,  you 
know,"  Mr.  Boville  has  a  rooted  objection  to  the  letter  R, 
"  I  don't  see  how  he  is  going  to  get  out  of  it.  The  Prince — • 
confound  him  !  would  bwand  him  as  a  coward  far  and  wide, 
and  Eric's  not  that.  My  dear  Terry,"  they  are  passing  un 
der  a  street  lamp  at  the  moment,  and  the  light  falls  full  upon 
his  companion's  face,  "  what  have  you  been  doing  to  your 
self?  There  is  a  bwuised  swelling  the  size  of  an  egg  be 
tween  your  eyes." 

Dennison's  face  turns  crimson,  a  deep,  burning,  tingling 
crimson  once  more.  He  pulls  his  hat  far  over  his  eyes,  and 
tries  to  laugh. 

"An  accident,  Boville.  Never  mind  my  face — I've  no 
beauty  to  spoil.  I've  come  to  talk  to  you  about  this  duel. 
At  what  hour  do  they  meet  ?  " 

"  At  first  peep  of  day,  between  half-past  six  and  seven. 
It  won't  do  to  be  later.  But  who  told  you  ?  De  Concressault 
or  Dynely  himself?" 

"  Both.    Boville,  this  meeting  must  never  take  place  ! " 

"  Delighted,  I'm  shaw,  to  hear  it,"  drawled  Mr.  Boville, 
opening  two  very  small,  very  sleepy  blue  eyes  to  their  widest ; 
"  never  was  accessory  to  a  murder  in  my  life — don't  want 
to  begin  now.  But,  at  the  same  time,  how  do  you  pwopwose 
to  pwevent  it  ?  " 

"You  can  refuse  to  act  for  Eric." 


"LOYAL  AU  MORT."  433 

Boville  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  inserted  his  glass  in 
his  eye. 

"  And  have  my  bwains  blown  out  for  my  pains.  Haven't 
got  many  bwains,  thank  Heaven — never  was  in  our  family 
— still,  the  few  I've  got  I  psvopose  to  keep.  That  dodge 
won't  work,  Terry,  t\vy  something  else." 

"  It  will  be  downright  slaughter,  Boville — nothing  less." 

"  Know  it,  dear  boy — told  Dynely  so  ;  but  what's  the  use 
of  telling?  He's  got  into  this  infernal  little  scwape,  and 
must  take  the  consequences.  He's  had  his  three  weeks'  flir 
tation  with  Felicia — now  he's  got  to  pay  the  penalty.  Ap- 
wopos  des  bottes,  she  was  in  capital  fawm  to-night — at  her 
loveliest.  If  it  were  she  that  was  to  be  shot  to-morrow,  I'd 
assist  at  the  cewemonial  with  the  gweatest  pleasure." 

There  is  a  moment's  silence,  and  the  two  men  walk  on  in 
the  rain.  Then  Dennison  speaks  in  an  altered  voice. 

"There  is  one  way,  Boville — only  one." 

"  Vewy  pleased  to  hear  it,  dear  boy.     Give  it  a  name." 

"  I  must  go  out  in  Dynely' s  place." 

It  is  the  proud  boast  of  Herbert  Boville's  life  that  since  he 
was  in  pinafores  he  has  never  felt  surprise  or  any  other 
earthly  emotion.  But  now — he  actually  stops  in  the  rain, 
and  stares  at  his  companion,  aghast.  » 

"  Go  out  in My  dear  Dennison,  I  don't  think  I  can 

have  heard  you  awight.  Will  you  kindly  wepeat  your  last 
wetnark?" 

"Oh  nonsense,  Boville — your  hearing's  all  right.  I  must 
go  out  in  Dynel/s  place ;  such  has  been  my  intention  from 
the  first,  and  I  call  upon  you  to  aid  and  second  me." 

Boville  fixed  his  glass  in  his  eye,  and  tried  in  the  darkness 
to  see  his  friend. 

"  I  always  thought,"  he  said  in  a  helpless  tone,  "  that  J 
had  less  bwains  myself  than  any  other  fellow  of  my  acquaint 
ance.  Now  I  know  I  was  mistaken.  Pway,  Terry,  when 
did  you  take  leave  of  your  senses?" 

Terry  muttered  something  forcible  and  strong. 

"Look  here,  Boville,"  he  cried  impatiently  ;  "  don't  let  us 
waste  time  chaffing.  As  surely  as  we  both  stand  here, 
I  mean  this.  Dynely  hasn't  a  ghost  of  a  chance,  as  we 
19 


434  "LOYAL  AU  MORT" 

both  know ;  for  him  to  meet  Di  Venturini  would  be  sheer 
murder.  Now  with  me  it  is  different.  I  may  not  be  the 
same  dead  shot  the  prince  is,  and  I  haven't  had  his  expe 
rience  with  living  targets,  but  my  pistol  hand  is  tolerably 
sure  for  all  that.  And  I  mean  to  meet  Di  Venturini  to 
morrow." 

He  said  it  with  a  dogged  determination  that  convinced 
Boville  at  last. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  said,  "  this  is  a  rum  go  !  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me,  Terry,  that  Eric  will  stand  by  and  allow  this?" 

Eric  knows  nothing  about  it — will  not  until  all  is  over. 
He  is  the  last  man  on  earth  who  would  allow  it.  The  devil 
himself  is  not  more  obstinate  or  more  plucky  than  Dynely." 

"  You  must  be  awfully  fond  of  him,  Terry,  old  boy  ! 
Gad  !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  all  my  life.  Knocks 
Damon  and  the  other  fellow  into  a  cocked-hat.  By  Jove  !  it 
does.  At  the  same  time  you  stand  no  more  chance  before 
the  prince  than  Dynely." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Dennison  responded,  coolly;  "as  I 
tell  you,  I'm  a  very  fair  shot  and  can  hold  my  own  with 
most  men." 

"With  most  men,  peihaps — not  with  the  prince.  And, 
then,  it's  impossible — oh,  utterly  impossible  !  You  don't 
suppose,  now,  Dennison,  you  don't  suppose  Di  Venturini  will 
fight  you  instead  of  Dynely  ?  " 

"I  don't  suppose  he  would,  if  he  knew.  It  is  not  my  in 
tention  to  let  him  know." 

"  Ah,  how  will  you  help  it  ?  " 

"  Simply  enough.     Di  Venturini  never  saw  Eric  in  his  life." 

"  But  he  has  seen  you,  dear  boy,  and  De  Concwessault 
knows  Eric  like  a  book.  How  do  you  propose  to  baffle  two 
pair  of  eyes  ?  " 

"  Boville,"  said  Terry,  earnestly,  "  this  thing  has  to  be 
done,  that  is  the  whole  amount  of  it.  Even  if  I  were  sure — 
which  I  am  not  at  all — that  Di  Venturini  would  shoot  me,  I 
would  still  meet  him.  It  will  be  the  early  dawn  of  a  da:  k  ar.d 
rainy  morning.  I  shall  wear  this  slouch  hat,  which,  to  a  great 
degree,  will  hide  my  face.  And  in  figure  and  general  air 
Dynely  and  I  are  alike — have  often  been  accosted  for  each 


"LOYAL  AU  MORT."  435 

other.  They  will  never  suspect — how  should  they  ?  They 
will  take  it  for  granted  that  I  am  Lord  Dynely,  and  tile  duel 
will  be  fought,  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  matter." 

"  An  end  of  the  matter  !  Ah  !  very  likely.  And  where, 
all  this  time,  will  be  Dynely  ?  " 

Terry  reddened. 

"  Dynely  will  be  asleep — drugged.  I  have  taken  care  of 
that." 

Again  Boville  paused — in  genuine,  unfeigned  amazement. 

"  Dennison  !  drugged  !  By  Jove  !  And  who  will  drug 
him  ?  " 

"  His  mother.     At  my  request." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  exclaimed  Boville  again,  and  laughed  softly. 
"  if  this  isn't  the  wummest  go.  By  Jove,  Terry,  Jww  fond 
you  must  be  of  Eric  ! " 

Once  more  Terry  reddened  violently  in  the  dark. 

"  Look  here,  Boville,"  he  said  again,  "  it  isn't  that.  It 
isn't  altogether  for  Eric's  sake.  I — I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
it's  for  the  sake  of  his  mother  and  wife.  Their  very  lives 
are  bound  up  in  him — if  he  is  killed  it  will  kill  them.  And 
I  owe  his  mother  everything — everything,  I  give  you  my 
word,  Boville.  I  stand  pledged  to  her,  solemnly  pledged  to 
save  her  son.  And  I  mean  to  keep  that  pledge.  There, 
you  have  it." 

"  And  you  expect  me  to  aid  and  abet  you  in  this  Quixotic 
— yes,  Dennison — Quixotic  scheme?  By  Jove  !  I'll  see  you 
shot  first!" 

';  You  will  probably  see  me  shot  «/,  at  least,"  Terry  an 
swered  with  a  slight  laugh.  "  Come  now,  Boville,  I  rely 
upon  you  in  this.  It's  for  the  best  all  round.  Di  Venturini 
will  shoot  Eric  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne — now  I  don't  mean 
to  let  him  shoot  me.  I  flatter  myself  my  chances  are  as 
good  as  his.  I  will  not  break  my  word  to  Lady  Dynely. 
If  you  refuse  to  aid  me,  I  will  go  to  Argyll — he  will  not,  I 
know." 

"  Has  Lady  Dynely  asked  you  to  meet  the  prince  in  her 
son's  place  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not — she  would  be  the  last  to  permit  such  a 
thing.  All  the  same ;  I  have  promised  to  save  him.  and 


436  "LOYAL  AU  MORT." 

there  is  no  other  way.  As  I  tell  you,  she  has  been  my  bene 
factress  all  my  life.  If  Dynely  were  killed,  his  mother  and 
wife  would  break  their  hearts.  And,"  Terry  drew  his  breath 
in  hard,  "  there  is  no  one  to  care  for  me." 

Boville  looked  at  him  suddenly.  In  the  dim  light  the  tall 
was  curiously  like  Eric's — he  noticed  it  for  the  first 
time.  Was  his  relationship  to  handsome  Eric  nearer  than 
the  world  knew  ? 

They  had  come  close  upon  the  Hotel  Louvre — the  bril 
liant  boulevards  almost  deserted  this  wet  night.  Dennison 
stopped,  and  grasped  his  companion's  hand. 

"  You  will  do  this  for  me,  Boville  ?  I  can  depend  upon 
you  ?  '* 

"Not  with  my  will,  I  swear,  Dennison  !  But  if  you  in 
sist—  ?  " 

"  I  do  insist.     What  is  the  hour?" 

"  Before  seven.  But  your  scheme  won't  wash.  I  warn 
you,  Di  Venturini  and  De  Concressault  will  know." 

"  They  will  not  know.     Until  six  to-morrow,  then,  Boville, 

old  fellow,  good-night,  and  sound  sleep." 

*  ******* 

In  Crystal's  room  the  light  burned  dim.  Pale,  motion 
less,  she  lay,  Lady  Dynely  watching  by  her  side.  It  was 
close  upon  midnight,  when  a  servant  came  in  and  softly 
announced  Mr.  Dennison. 

"  Terry  !  "  She  started  up  and  went  to  meet  him  in  the 
outer  room.  "  Well?"  she  whispered,  breathlessly. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  tone ;  "  and 
Crystal  ?  " 

"  Crystal  is  asleep  and — safe.  It  was  but  a  small  artery 
ruptured,  and  she  will  be  about  in  a  few  weeks,  so  the  doc 
tors  say." 

"  Thank  Heaven ! "  she  heard  him  murmur.  Then 
"  where  is  Eric  ?  " 

"  Eric  is  asleep,  too.  I  have  done  as  you  bade,  Terry. 
He  has  had  the  glass  of  port,  and  the  opiate  in  it.  He  took 
it  as  quietly  as  a  child." 

Her  lip  quivered.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  for  a  moment, 
and  kissed  her. 


"LOYAL  AU  MORT."  437 

"  Keep  up  heart,  mother.  I  will  keep  my  word.  All  will 
be  well  with  Eric.  And  now,"  with  strange  shyness,  "  be 
fore  I  go — may  I  go  in  for  a  moment  and  look  at  Crystal  ?  " 

She  motioned  him  to  enter,  remaining  outside  herself. 
He  went  softly  in,  and  knelt  reverently  down  by  the  little 
white  bed.  Like  a  lily  she  lay,  so  cold,  so  white,  so  pure. 

"  My  little  Crystal,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "  my  little 
love,  if  by  the  sacrifice  of  my  own  life  I  can  bring  happi 
ness  to  you,  then  I  resign  it  willingly.  My  own  little  one  ! 
good-by,  and  God  bless  and  keep  you  always." 

Lady  Dynely  had  quitted  the  dressing  room  for  a  moment 
to  glance  at  her  slumbering  son.  He  lay  deeply  asleep,  his 
head  pillowed  on  his  arm,  his  fair  Greek  profile  turned  to 
the  faint  light.  Then  she  hurried  back  to  say  one  last  word 
to  Terry,  but  Terry  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


HOW  THE   MORNING   BROKE. 

JHE  rain  fell  softly  and  ceaselessly  all  night — it 
was  falling  softly  and  ceaselessly  still  when  morn 
ing  dawned.  The  gray,  ragged  light  was  struggling 
wanly  through  the  leaden  sky  when  a  fiacre  drove 
rapidly  toward  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  three  men  got  out. 
They  were  Dennison,  Boville,  and  an  English  surgeon,  resi 
dent  of  Paris. 

"You  will  wait  here,"  Boville  said  to  the  cabman;  and 
the  three  men  hurried  rapidly  along  to  a  secluded  and  dis 
tant  spot,  where,  under  the  waving  trees,  scores  of  "  meet 
ings  of  honor  "  had  taken  place  before. 

They  were  a  very  silent  party.  Boville  looked  perplexed 
and  gloomy,  and  gnawed  his  mustache  uneasily. 

"I  feel  as  though  I  were  helping  to  slaughter  you,  Den- 
nison,"  he  had  groaned  as  they  first  started.  The  band  of 
comradeship  between  him  and  Terry  was  one  of  many  years' 
standing,  and  the  settled  conviction  was  upon  him  this  dreary 
morning  that  Terry  was  going  to  his  death.  The  miserable 
weather,  perhaps,  had  something  to  do  with  his  forebodings, 
also  the  unearthly  hour  at  which  he  had  been  obliged  to  get 
up,  but  most  of  all  Di  Venturini's  reputation  as  a  dead  shot. 

"  Wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  got  mixed  up  in  the  infew- 
nal  business,"  he  growled,  inwardly  "  Eric  was  bad  enough, 
but  this  is  worse.  Nevew  heard  of  such  an  awangement 
before — nevew.  If  Dennison's  shot,  as  he's  sure  to  be,  I 
shall  feel  like  a  murdewer  all  my  life." 

They  strode  silently  on  together  now,  beneath  the  drip 
ping  trees. 

"  We're  wather  ahead  of  time,  I  think,"  Boville  remarked 


HO  IV  THE  MORNING  BROKE.  439 

drearily,  once,  as  they  passed  swiftly  over  the  short,  wet 
grass. 

"  It's  always  well  to  err  on  the  right  side/'  Dennison 
answered  cheerfully.  "  Di  Venturini  isn't  the  sort  to  keep 
any  one  waiting  when  this  kind  of  thing  is  on  hand." 

He  was  looking  pale  and  rather  jaded.  He  had  slept 
little  or  none  all  night.  He  had  written  a  brief  note  to 
Lady  Dynely  and  another  to  Eric,  and  intrusted  them  to 
Boville,  to  be  delivered  in  case  of  the  worst.  And  the  worst 
would  happen,  that  he  felt  as  surely  as  Boville  himself.  The 
quarrel  between  Di  Venturini  and  Dynely  was  of  that  deadly 
sort  that  admitted  of  no  half  measures.  As  surely  as  he 
walked  here  he  knew  that  the  prince  meant  to  kill  him — if 
he  could. 

He  had  altered  himself  greatly  during  the  preceding  night. 
All  his  profuse,  flame-colored  beard  had  been  shaven  oft",  his 
great,  ruddy,  trooper  mustache  trimmed  down,  and  wraxed 
at  the  points,  to  resemble  Eric's  dandy,  golden,  facial  adorn 
ment.  It  deepened  the  faint  likeness  between  them  incred 
ibly — even  Boville  was  genuinely  surprised.  That  impurpled 
swelling  between  the  eyes  had  been  reduced  by  judicious 
applications;  the  slouched,  felt  hat,  pulled  far  down,  hid  it 
altogether.  His  coat-collar  was  turned  up,  naturally,  to 
exclude  the  rain,  and  with  the  vague,  general  air  of  resem 
blance  in  their  figure  and  walk,  it  would  really  have  required 
a  suspicion  of  the  truth  to  make  either  Di  Venturini  or  his 
second  suspect  the  exchange. 

They  reached  the  spot  chosen.  It  wras  deserted.  Boville 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"  A  quarter  of  seven.  They  ought  to  be  here.  It  won't 
do  to  loiter  about  after — " 

"  Hark  !  "  Dennison  interrupted,  lifting  his  finger.  Foot 
steps  and  voices  were  approaching  rapidly.  "  I  thought  his 
excellency  would  not  keep  us  waiting  long.  Here  they  are." 

They  came  in  view  at  the  moment.  Terry  pulled  his 
hat  a  little  farther  over  his  brow,  and  busied  himself  in 
lighting  a  cigar.  Di  Venturini  bowed  to  him  profoundly, 
with  all  the  debonnaire  grace  for  which  his  highness  was 
justly  famed.  Dennison,  like  a  true-born  Briton,  returned  it 


44O  HOW  THE  MORNING  BROKE. 

stiffly  and  distantly.     De  Concressault  approached  Boville 
with  profuse  gesture  and  apologies  for  the  brief  delay. 

"  A  million  pardons.  He  was  disgusted  at  having  neces* 
sitated  their  waiting  in  the  rain.  It  was  all  the  fault  of  their 
most  infamous  pig  of  a  driver.  Would  they  proceed  to  busi 
ness  at  once  ?  There  was  no  time  to  lose." 

Terry  was  turned,  his  face  averted,  still  absorbed  by  his 
cigar  and  refractory  Vesuvians,  which,  dampened  by  the  mist, 
refused  to  light.  Di  Venturini,  buttoned  up  to  the  throat  in 
a  tight  black  coat,  no  speck  of  white  anywhere  visible,  stood 
leaning  against  a  tree  some  forty  rods  distant,  a  half-smile  of 
devilish  malignity  and  triumph  on  his  face. 

The  preliminaries  of  the  duel  were  soon  arranged ;  great 
practice  had  rendered  M.  de  Concressault  an  adept  in  these 
nice  matters  of  honor.  The  combatants  were  to  fire  simul 
taneously,  at  fourteen  paces,  at  the  dropping  of  a  handker 
chief  and  the  old  "  une,  deux,  trois" 

"  Stand  here,  M.  le  Prince,  if  you  please,"  Boville  said, 
marking  the  spot ;  and  the  prince,  with  that  smile  of  demo 
niacal  malice  and  triumph  still  in  his  yellow  face,  bowed  and 
obeyed. 

"  You'll  take  your  place  here,  Dennison,"  Boville  con 
tinued,  in  an  undertone;  "and  for  Heaven's  sake  fire  the 
very  instant  I  say  three." 

Dennison  nodded,  threw  away  his  cigar,  received  his  pistol, 
and  took  his  place.  His  heart  beat  fast,  with  absolute  ter 
ror,  lest  he  should  be  recognized.  But  the  shaven  beard, 
the  hat  pulled  down,  the  coat  collar  turned  up,  concealed 
him  effectually.  A  shapely  nose  and  a  ruddy  mustache  were 
alone  visible  ;  for  the  rest,  the  general  figure  and  bearing 
were  sufficiently  like  Eric's  to  pass  muster  in  that  dull  light. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause — Boville  held  out  a  white 
handkerchief. 

"Ready,  messieurs?"  Then  a  pause,  "One — two." 
Another  pause,  a  quick,  warning  glance  at  Dennison, 
"  Three!  " 

The  white  handkerchief  fell,  and  simultaneously  two  shots 
rang  sharply  out  on  the  still  morning  air. 

Again  there   was   a  pause,  brief,   terrible.     The    smoke 


HOW  THE  MORNING  BROKE, 


441 


cleared  away — both  men  stood  as  they  had  been  placed, 
The  prince's  left  wrist  hung  broken.  Boville's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Terry.  Was  he  untouched  ?  No.  As  he  looked 
he  saw  him  sway  blindly  forward,  wheel  half-round,  and  fall 
like  a  log  on  his  face. 

Boville  and  the  surgeon  rushed  forward,  the  latter  first, 
and  turned  him  over  and  raised  his  head.  The  face  was 
ghastly,  the  eyes  closed,  and  from  the  breast  in  the  region  of 
the  heart  a  small  stream  of  blood  was  making  its  way 
through  his  clothes. 

"  Is  he  dead?  "  Boville  asked,  himself  almost  as  white  as 
the  fallen  man. 

«  No — fainted,  but — " 

He  tore  open  coat  and  shirt  and  examined  the  wound.  A 
small,  livid  hole  beneath  the  heart  was  there  on  the  broad, 
marble-like  bosom,  from  which  that  slender  red  stream  yet 
trickled. 

"  It  doesn't  look  very  bad,  it  doesn't  seem  to  bleed 
much,"  Boville  cried,  in  an  agony  of  impatience.  "  For 
Heaven's  sake,  Jackson,  speak  out !  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

The  doctor  looked  grimly  up  from  his  manipulation. 

"  I  think  there  is  internal  bleeding,  Mr.  Boville.  This 
young  man  won't  live  two  hours." 

Boville  rose  suddenly,  and  turned  away. 

"  His  highness,  the  prince,  does  his  work  well.  It's  a 
pity,  too — it's  the  finest  physique  I  ever  saw  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life.  The  torso  of  a  Hercules,  by  George. 
In  the  ordinary  course  of  things  this  poor  fellow  would 
have  lived  to  be  ninety." 

"  Can  he  be  moved  ?  "  Hubert  Boville  asked,  in  a  stifled 
voice. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  he  must,  I  suppose.  It  may  hasten  the  end, 
but  won't  alter  it.  Where  are  you  going  to  take  him  ?  " 

"  To  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.     His  friends  are  there." 

"  Poor  lad  !  By  Jupiter,  what  a  bust !  "  the  doctor  cried, 
lost  in  professional  admiration. 

At  this  moment  the  prince  and  the  captain  of  Zouaves 
sauntered  up. 

"See  if  he's  dead,  De  Concressault,"  they  heard  Di 
19* 


442  HOW  THE  MORNING  BROKE. 

Venturini'  say  nonchalantly  ;  "  my  right  hand  must  be  losing 
its  cunning  if  he  is  not.     I  certainly  meant  to  kill  him." 

"  Oh  !  il  est  mort"  De  Concressault  responded,  with 
equal  carelessness;  "he's  shot  through  the  heart,  and  the 
sooner  you  are  over  the  frontier  the  better,  M.  le  Prince. 
Messieurs,  bonjour  !  "  He  lifted  his  hat,  bowed  profoundly, 
and  without  another  look  at  their  victim,  both  hastily  quitted 

the  ground. 

******          #*# 

Seven  !  by  the  great  booming  bell  of  Notre  Dame.  Seven, 
by  all  the  steeples  of  Paris.  Seven,  by  the  little  Swiss 
clock  in  the  chamber  where  Crystal  lay,  feverishly  asleep, 
and  Lady  Dynely,  senior,  sat  pale  and  worn,  watching.  In 
the  adjoining  dressing-room,  on  the  broad,  soft  sofa,  Eric 
lay  still,  in  deepest,  dreamless  sleep.  Safe  !  and  the  fatal 
hour  past. 

Where  was  Terry  ?  What  was  he  doing  ?  In  what  way 
had  he  stopped  the  duel  ?  Lady  Dynely' s  heart  was  beating 
anxiously  and  fast — some  dim,  prophetic  prescience  of  the 
truth  was  trying  to  force  its  way  upon  her,  but  she  would 
not  listen.  No,  no !  Terry  would  never  be  so  insane  as 
that.  He  was  not  reckless  and  foolish  like  Eric — he  would 
never  think  of  keeping  his  word  in  that  way.  Only — as  she 
had  never  longed  for  any  one's  coming  in  her  life,  she 
longed  for  Terry's  now. 

Half-past  seven.  She  arose  from  her  place  by  Crystal's 
bed  and  went  into  Eric's  room.  Still  asleep — soundly, 
sweetly — like  a  little  child,  his  blonde,  handsome  head  still 
pillowed  on  his  arm,  a  placid  expression  of  profound  rest  on 
his  face.  She  stooped  low  and  kissed  him — a  prayer  for  him 
in  her  heart.  He  was  the  idol  of  her  life — he  always  had 
been.  And  but  for  Terry  he  might  be  lying  dead  out  there 
in  the  rain  somewhere,  even  now — yes,  even  now.  How 
good  he  was,  how  generous,  poor  Terry  ! — few  would  have 
resigned  life's  best  gifts  as  he  had  to  his  younger  brother,  for 
her  sake.  She  would  show  him  in  the  future  how  grateful 
she  was,  how  noble  she  thought  him. 

Eric  stirred  in  his  sleep — he  murmured  a  word.     She  ben« 


HO  IV  THE   MORNING  BROKE. 


443 


low  to  catch  it — was  it  hers,  was  it  his  wife's  name  ?  He 
turned  and  spoke  again,  more  loudly. 

"  Felicia,"  he  said,  "  Felicia,  ma  belle,  I  will  meet  you  to 
morrow." 

She  recoiled  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling.  Even  in 
his  sleep  it  was  of  that  wicked  sorceress  his  thoughts  were — 
that  fatal  woman,  who  had  so  nearly  compassed  his  death. 
She  turned  without  another  look,  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Eight  o'clock.  Still  Terry  did  not  come.  Oh,  what 
detained  him  ?  Surely  he  must  know  ho\v  anxious  she  was. 

A  quarter  past.  She  arose  impatiently  to  quit  the  room, 
and  on  the  landing,  ascending  the  stairs,  she  came  face  to 
face  with  Hubert  Boville. 

At  the  first  glance,  before  he  opened  his  lips,  before  a 
word  had  passed,  she  knew  something  had  happened.  His 
clothes  were  wet  with  rain,  his  high  boots  splashed  with 
mud,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  excited.  He  took  off  his  hat 
as  he  saw  her,  and  she  instinctively  recoiled. 

"  Mr.  Boville  !  "  she  gasped.     "  Oh,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  was  coming  in  search  of  you,  Lady  Dynely,"  he  said. 
There  was  an  instinctive  coldness  in  his  courteous  tone — 
had  not  she  in  some  way  sent  Dennison  to  his  doom  ?  "I 
am  the  bearer  of  very  sad  and  shocking  news.  Poor  Terry 
Dennison — " 

He  stopped.  With  a  cry  he  never  forgot — a  cry  whose 
exceeding  bitterness  made  him  pity  her  even  in  that  hour — 
she  staggered  back  against  the  wall,  and  put  out  her  hand  to 
ward  off  the  blow  that  must  come. 

"  I  see  you  suspect  the  truth,"  he  said,  more  gently.  "1 
am  very  sorry — sorrier  than  I  can  ever  say — that  I,  in  any 
way,  have  had  a  hand  in  this.  But  the  duel  has  been 
fought  ;  he  met  him  in  Lord  Dynely' s  place  ;  and — we  have 
brought  him  here.  He  is  below  in  the  cab.  Will  you  have 
a  room  prepared  at  once,  Lady  Dynely — there  is  no  time  to 
lose." 

She  stood  literally  gasping  for  breath.  Her  hand  over 
her  heart.  Oh  !  what  was  this  ? — what  was  this  ? 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  Boville  repeated  again.  He 
had  little  sympathy  for  the  hysterics  of  the  woman  who,  to 


444  -       HOW  THE  MORNING  BROKE. 

shield  her  own  son,  had,  he  knew,  urged  Dennison  to  save 
him  at  any  cost.     "  I  must  beg  of  you,  Lady  Dynely — " 

She  came  a  step  forward,  and  grasped  his  arm. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  voice  no  one  would  have 
recognized  as  her  own. 

"  No,  my  lady  ;  not  yet." 

The  answer  seemed  to  inspire  her  with  galvanic  life. 
"  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope."  He  was  not  dead.  Oh ! 
Heaven  be  praised  ! — he  might  not  die  after  all. 

"  Bring  him  up,"  she  cried,  starting  forward,  "  at  once — 
at  once,  to  this  room." 

She  pointed  to  it,  and  hastened  forward  to  prepare  it  with 
her  own  hands.  Boville  departed.  She  summoned  her 
maid,  and  together,  with  feverish  haste,  they  made  ready  the 
bed. 

They  carried  him  up  between  them — a  stark,  rigid  form — 
and  laid  him  on  the  bed. 

As  she  looked  upon  the  bloodless,  awfully  corpse-like  face, 
the  closed  eyes,  the  blue  rigid  lips,  a  sudden  stillness  came 
over  her.  Was  that  Terry — Terry  Dennison  ? — whom  only 
eight  hours  ago  she  had  seen  in  all  the  strength  and  vigor  of 
youth  and  powerful  manhood  ?  That  Terry  ? — Terry,  who 
never,  in  all  the  twenty  years  she  had  known  him,  had  had 
one  sick  day?  That  Terry,  lying  there  cold  and  motionless 
• — so  awfully  white,  so  awfully  still  ? 

"  My  dear  Lady  Dynely,"  said  Boville,  with  real  compas 
sion,  touched  by  the  ghastly  horror  of  her  face,  "  come 
away." 

She  turned  to  him. 

"  You  told  me,"  she  whispered.  "  You  told  me  he  was 
not  dead." 

"  Neither  he  is — only  insensible.  Come  with  me — you 
must  come  for  the  present.  The  doctor  is  going  to  try  to 
find  the  ball.  The  moment  the  operation  is  over  you  shall 
return." 

He  led  her  from  the  room,  her  face  still  fixed  in  that  look 
of  white  horror. 

"  Where  is  Lord  Dynely  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Asleep,"  she  whispered j  "he  told  me,  and  I — for  my 


HOW  THE  MORNING  BROKE. 

son's  sake,  I  made  Terry  do  this — for  my  son's  sake  I  sent 
him  to  his  death.  It  is  I — I — who  have  killed  him.  Oh, 
Heaven  !  this  is  how  he  meant  to  keep  his  word." 

She  fell  down  upon  a  fauteuil,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 
He  could  say  nothing — do  nothing — she  only  spoke  the 
truth.  He  had  a  man's  natural  dislike  to  scenes,  and  so 
left  her. 

He  returned  to  the  chamber  he  had  quitted.  The  surgeon 
rose  at  his  entrance  from  his  work. 

"Well?"  Boville  asked. 

"  I  cannot  extract  the  bullet,  and  he  is  dying.  You  may 
as  well  tell  them  so.  He  will  be  a  dead  man  in  an  hour." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  Hubert  Boville  stood  with  folded  arms, 
an  expression  of  bitter  regret  on  his  face,  looking  down  upon 
his  friend  and  comrade.  "Yes,  death  is  imprinted  here. 
And  when  the  last  great  muster  roll  is  called,"  he  said,  with 
unconscious  pathos,  "  no  truer  friend,  no  braver  soldier,  will 
ever  answer  than  Terry  Dennison." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"WHILE   IT  WAS  YET  DAY.' 

|ALF  AN  HOUR  had  passed.     Lady  Dynely  knew 
that  Terry  Dennison  was  about  to  die. 

The  truth  was  broken  to  her  by  France  Forres 
ter.  Miss  Forrester,  coming  early  and  hastily  to 
relieve  her  ladyship's  watch  by  the  sick  bed  of  Eric's  wife, 
had  heard  the  first  version  of  the  truth  from  the  whispering 
servants  of  the  hotel.  Pale  with  wonder  and  terror  she  had 
asked  for  Mr.  Boville,  and  Mr.  Boville  had  come  forward  and 
told  the  whole  truth.  So  !  he  had  crowned  all  the  sacrifices 
of  the  past  for  Lady  Dynely  and  her  son  by  yielding  up  his 
life.  Surely  he  had  paid  his  debt. 

"Is  he  conscious?"  she  asked,  with  strange,  mournful 
calm.  Her  own  great  sorrow  had  left  its  traces  on  her  worn, 
pale  face,  but  still  more  in  the  unnatural  quiet  and  gravity 
of  her  manner. 

"  Yes,  he  has  been  conscious  for  the  last  five  minutes." 
"  May  I  go  in  ?  "  she  pleaded.   "  I  will  not  disturb  him.    I 
will  be  very  quiet/' 

"  Certainly,"  Boville  said,  "  and  Lady  Dynely  must  be 
told,  too.  I — I  wish  you  would  tell  her,  Miss  Forrester.  I 
hate  breaking  things  to  people." 

"  I  will  tell  her.     How  long  will  he  live  ?  " 
"  Half  an  hour  perhaps.     Certainly  not  more." 
"  Have  you  sent  for  a  clergyman  ?     No.     Then  do  so  at 
once." 

She  passed  into  the  room.  The  blinds  were  up,  the  full 
light  of  the  gray,  rainy  morning  streamed  in.  She  bent  over 
the  bed.  The  face  was  still  and  colorless  as  marble,  the 
syes  closed.  Her  own  filled 


"WHILE  IT  WAS    YET  DAY." 

"  Does  he  suffer  ?  "  she  whispered  to  the  doctor  across  the 
bed. 

"  Very  little,  if  any.  The  hemorrhage  is  internal.  There 
is  faintness,  but  no  pain." 

The  low  whisper  reached  him.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and 
a  smile  of  recognition  came  over  his  face. 

"  France  !  "  he  said,  faintly. 

"  Yes,  Terry."  Then  all  at  once  a  great  choking  seized 
her  and  she  could  say  no  more. 

"  Don't  cry,"  he  said,  still  faintly,  smiling,  "it  will — be — 
all  right." 

"  Yes,  dear  old  fellow,  I  think  it  will."  She  stooped  down 
with  infinite  pity  and  tenderness  and  kissed  him.  "You — 
you  are  going,  Terry — do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It's  all  right,  France.  Don't  cry  so.  It's  awfully 
good  of  you  to  come." 

His  strength  seemed  to  rally  for  a  moment.  He  looked 
anxiously  around. 

"  Where  am  I  ?     This  isn't  my  room." 

"  Don't  make  him  talk  too  much,"  the  doctor  said. 
"  Here,  sir,  drink  this." 

He  swallowed  the  spoonful  of  liquid  and  still  watched 
France  with  anxious  eyes. 

"  You  are  in  one  of  Eric's  rooms." 

"  Eric,"  his  eyes  lighted,  "  where  is  Eric  ?  " 

"  Asleep.     Would  you  like  to  see  him  ?  " 

The  light  faded  from  his  face.  All  at  once  he  recalled 
the  livid  bruise  between  his  eyes,  and  averted  it  even  in  that 
hour. 

"  He — might  not — care  to  come,"  he  said  with  difficulty. 
"How  is— Crystal?" 

"Crystal  is  recovering.  Oh  !  don't  think  of  her,  of  him, 
of  any  one,  dear  old  Terry,  but  yourself.  We  have  sent  for 
a  clergyman.  He  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  You  will  see 
him  ?  " 

He  nodded  assent. 

"  Where  is  the  madre  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  In  the  next  room — broken-hearted.  Shall  I  go  for 
her  ?  " 


448  "WHILE  IT  WAS    YET  DAY" 

11  Poor  mother  !     Yes." 

She  turned  at  once  to  go.  As  she  did  so  the  door  opened 
and  the  clergyman  came  hastily  in. 

"  I  will  leave  you  with  him  for  ten  minutes,"  France  whis 
pered,  "  then  we  will  all  return." 

She  hurried  from  the  room  and  into  the  presence  of  Lady 
Dynely.  As  she  had  fallen  down  half  an  hour  ago,  Lady 
Dynely  still  lay  in  a  sort  of  stupor  of  dull,  infinite  misery. 
France  lifted  her  head. 

"  Rouse  yourself,  Lady  Dynely,"  she  said  :  "he has  asked 
for  you,  poor  boy.  You  must  go  to  him." 

To  her  dying  day  France  never  forgot  the  utter  wretched 
ness  of  the  face  uplifted  at  her  command. 

"  He  is  dying,  France,  and  I — I  have  killed  him.  I  made 
him  swear  to  save  Eric,  no  matter  how,  no  matter  how,  and 
he  has  given  his  life  for  my  son.  And,  last  night,  Eric  struck 
him,  struck  him  full  in  the  face.  No,  I  cannot  go  to  him — 
I  can  never  look  upon  him  again." 

"  This  is  folly,  Lady  Dynely  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  her 
eyes  kindling.  "  Are  you  altogether  heartless  ?  He  has 
asked  for  you — your  absence  will  embitter  his  last  hour. 
You  must  go  to  him,  Eric  must  go.  Oh  !  "  France  cried, 
"have  you  not  made  him  suffer  enough,  you  and  Eric,  that 
you  are  so  ready  to  make  him  suffer  still  at  the  last  ?" 

Lady  Dynely  arose  wildly  to  her  feet. 

"  I  will  go  to  him  !  I  will  do  anything  !  I  will  go  to  him 
at  once." 

"  Not  quite  at  once.  A  clergyman  is  with  him.  Leave 
them  alone  for  a  little.  But  rouse  up  Eric  ;  fetch  him  with 
you ;  tell  him  all." 

"  Tell  him  all ! "  Lady  Dynely  repeated.  She  stood,  a 
strange,  excited  expression  crossing  her  face.  "  Yes,"  she 
said,  under  her  breath,  "I  will  tell  him  all — ALL.  It  is 
time." 

She  ran  from  the  room,  and  into  Eric's.  He  was  mov 
ing  and  muttering  restlessly  now,  the  opiate  beginning  to 
lose  its  effect.  She  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  shook  him 
roughly. 

"  Awake,  Eric  ! "  she  cried ;  "  awake  at  once." 


"WHILE  IT   WAS    YET  DAY."  449 

He  opened  his  eyes  immediately  and  stared  up  at  her  in 
a  dazed  way. 

"What's  the  matter,  mother?  Have  you  gone  mad? 
Crystal " 

He  half  rose  on  his  elbow  with  a  look  of  alarm. 

"  Never  mind  Crystal — wake  up  !  " 

"  I  hai'e  woke  up.  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  What's 
the  hour  ?  "  Then,  like  lightning,  memory  rushed  upon 
him ;  his  face  flushed,  turned  pale.  He  pulled  out  his 
watch  and  looked  at  the  time.  A  quarter  of  nine.  "  Great 
Heaven  ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  fell  back  among  the  pillows. 

"Ay!"  his  mother  cried,  bitterly,  "look  at  the  hour. 
The  time  for  the  duel  is  past,  is  it  not  ?  And  the  duel  has 
been  fought,  and  your  honor  saved.  Oh,  my  heart  !  such 
honor.  You  are  safe  here,  and  he  lies  dying  there — for 
you.  Your  own  brother,  Eric — your  elder  brother  !  " 

He  sat  and  stared  at  her,  thinking  she  had  gone  mad, 
quite  speechless. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  have  not  lost  my  senses,  though  you 
look  as  if  you  thought  it.  The  duel  has  been  fought  ; 
Terry  took  your  place,  and  he  lies  dying  in  yonder  room 
now,  for  you,  and  for  me,  and  for  Crystal — the  friend  whom 
you  struck  last  night — the  brother  whose  birthright  you  have 
usurped  all  your  life  !  " 

Still  he  sat  speechless — still  he  was  staring  at  her,  not 
comprehending  a  word. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  understand — you  won't  understand,  and 
time  is  flying  and  every  moment  is  precious.  I  must  go  to 
him.  Eric,  rouse  yourself !  try  to  comprehend  what  I  am 
saying.  Terry  met  Prince  Di  Venturini  this  morning,  and 
fought  your  duel  for  you.  I  made  him  !  I  nearly  went  mad 
when  he  came  to  me  last  night  and  told  me  of  Crystal's  acci 
dent  first,  and  of  your  challenge.  I  don't  know  what  I  said, 
I  don't  know  what  I  did,  only  I  made  him  promise  to  save 
rou,  and  he  has,  he  has ! " 

He  was  beginning  to  understand  now.  His  face  turned 
white,  his  lips  set  themselves. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  gave  you  an  opiate  and  you  slept  while  he  went  out 


45O  "  WHILE  IT  WAS    YET  DA  F." 

and  met  the  prince  in  your  place.  He  is  dying  in  that  room, 
and  he  has  asked  for  you  and  for  me  ;  and  he  is  your  brother, 
Eric,  your  own  brother." 

"My  brother!  Mother,  are  you  mad?  I  have  no 
brother." 

But  he  grew  whiter  still  as  he  said  it.  The  resemblance 
between  them — the  vague,  unsatisfactory  story  of  his  rela 
tionship  to  them — all  flashed  upon  him  ;  and  then  he  knew 
what  manner  of  man  his  father  had  been. 

"  He  is  your  brother — your  very  own  ;  your  father's  son. 
Oh,  not  as  you  think,"  seeing  the  expression  of  his  face ; 
"his  mother  was  Lord  Dynely's  wife.  I  have  all  the  proofs, 
and  he  was  three  years  old  when  you  were  born." 

He  rose  up. 

"  His  mother  was  Lord  Dynely's  wife — his  wife  l  And 
Terry  is  three  years  older  than  I  am.  Mother,  what  is 
this  ?  " 

"  The  truth  !  And  Terry  Dennison  is  your  father's  elder 
son  and  heir  !  I  knew  it  since  the  night  of  your  father's 
death  ;  he  confessed  all,  dying,  whilst  I  knelt  by  his  bedside. 
You  never  for  one  moment  have  had  a  right  to  the  title  you 
bear.  Terry  Dennison  is  Lord  Viscount  Dynely  ! " 

He  fell  heavily  back  on  the  seat  he  had  quitted. 

"  And  you  concealed  this?"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  No — I  told  him.  I  told  him  last  August.  When  he 
wanted  to  go  down  to  Lincolnshire  and  ask  Crystal  Higgins 
to  be  his  wife,  I  detained  him.  I  could  not  let  him  go  in 
ignorance.  I  kept  him  and  told  him  all — all,  Eric !  I 
thought  he  would  have  ousted  you  and  claimed  his  own. 
That  was  why  I  wanted  you  so  much  to  marry  France  For 
rester  and  her  fortune.  But  he  gave  up  all,  Eric — name, 
title,  wealth — for  the  love  of  you  and  me." 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  turned  from  her — 
stunned. 

"  He  might  have  won  Crystal — she  was  his  before  you 
came — she  was  all  he  had,  and  you  took  her  from  him.  He 
might  have  taken  from  you  title  and  fortune,  and  he  did  not. 
Last  night  he  came  to  you  in  all  good  faith  and  brotherly 
love,  and — and,"  a  great  gasp,  "you  struck  him,  Eric!  I 


"WHILE  IT   WAS    YET  DAY." 

kissed  the  brutal  mark  on  his  poor  face  last  night.  This 
morning  he  went  out  in  your  place  and  met  the  prince,  and 
was  shot  down  -^  you  would  have  been.  And  he  lies  dying 
there  ;  he  will  be  dead  before  the  hour  ends." 

He  put  out  his  hand  with  a  fierce  gesture  to  stop  her. 

"Cease  !  "  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  Oh,  God  !  I  cannot  bexr 
it!" 

She  obeyed — a  rain  of  tears  pouring  over  her  face.  He 
lay  mute — quivering  through  all  his  strong  young  frame. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  said,  in  the  same  hoarse  voice,  *'  I  want 
to  be  alone." 

She  turned  to  go,  but  on  the  threshold  she  stopped. 

"  You  will  come,  Eric,"  she  said,  "  when  we  send?  " 

"Yes.      Go!" 

She  went.     France  stood  waiting  for  her  at  the  door. 

"  He  has  asked  for  you  again.  He  is  sinking  fast. 
Come." 

She  led  her  into  that  other  room.  The  clergyman's  last 
offices  were  over.  On  the  face,  lying  among  the  pillows, 
the  cold  dews  of  death  already  stood.  She  fell  down  on  her 
knees  by  the  bed  and  took  the  dying  head  in  her  arms. 
He  opened  his  heavy  eyes  and  smiled — a  smile  of  great 
content.  "  Mother"  he  said,  and  lay  still. 

"  Oh,  my  Terry  !  my  Terry ! "  she  cried  out,  "  forgive 
me  before  you  go." 

"  There  is — nothing — to  forgive,"  he  spoke,  slowly  and 
faintly,  but  clearly.  "You  were  always  good  to  me.  I 
loved  you  all  my  life,  mother.  Don't  cry — it's  better  so. 
Eric,"  his  eyes  looked  wistfully  toward  the  door,  he  sighed 
wearily,  "  Eric  won't  come  ?  " 

"  Eric  will  come."  She  bent  down  and  kissed  him,  and 
in  that  kiss  whispered :  "  I  have  told  him  all." 

"  All !  "  He  looked  up  at  her  quickly,  almost  in  reproof. 
"  That  was  wrong." 

"  It  was  right.  I  should  have  told  him  long  ago.  Oh, 
my  boy  !  my  own  Terry  !  how  good  you  are." 

He  smiled — Terry's  own  amused  smile.  Then  he  closed 
\iis  eyes  wearily,  and  lay  still  again. 


452  "WHILE  IT   WAS    YET  DAY" 

Obeying  a  motion  of  her  hand,  France  had  gone  to  fetch 
Eric. 

He  came  in — white  as  death  itself,  an  agony  of  remorse, 
of  sorrow,  upon  his  face,  changing  it  beyond  all  telling.  He 
knelt  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed,  and  laid  his  face 
on  one  of  Terry's  hands,  without  a  word. 

"  Eric  !  dear  old  boy  !  "  The  old,  glad,  loving  light  lit 
the  dying  eyes.  "  I'm  glad  you've  come.  You  don't  mind 
what  I  did  this  morning  ?  Di  Venturini  will  never  know. 
It's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

He  was  watching  him  wistfully. 

Was  Eric  angry  ?  But  Eric  only  lifted  his  face  for  a  min 
ute,  and  laid  it  down  again. 

"  All  right  !     Oh,  Terry  !  you  break  my  heart." 

What  was  it  fell  on  Terry's  hand  ?  Tears,  and  from  the 
eyes  of  Eric  Dynely  !  For  a  moment  Terry  himself  could 
not  speak. 

"  It  is  all  right,  then,"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "  Dear 
old  boy,  I'm  glad  of  that." 

Then  there  was  stillness.  He  lay  in  Lady  Dynely's  arms, 
his  face  pillowed  on  her  breast,  his  eyes  closed,  his  breath 
ing  coming  quick  and  hard.  On  the  other  side  knelt  Eric, 
never  moving  or  looking  up.  The  dull,  melancholy  light 
stole  in  and  fell  upon  him,  stricken  down  there,  in  the  glory 
and  strength  of  his  manhood.  France  Forrester  watched 
him  mournfully,  from  her  post  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  And  his  sun  went  down,  while  it  was  yet  day,"  she 
thought.  "  My  own  dear  Terry  !  as  clean  of  heart,  as  brave 
of  soul,  as  loyal  a  knight  as  any  Arthur  or  Galahad  of  them 
all." 

Suddenly  his  eyes  opened,  and  he  looked  up  in  Lady 
Dynely's  face. 

"  I — have — kept  my  promise,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  I  never 
quarrelled — with  Eric." 

"  Oh,  my  boy !  my  Terry ! "  she  could  only  answer 
through  her  tears. 

He  moved  a  little. 

"Eric,"  he  whispered,  and  Eric  lifted  his  pale  face  and 
red,,  tear  wet  eyes.  "  Good-by — brother"  he  said,  so  low 


"WHILE  IT  WAS    YET  DAY."  453 

thai  Eric  had  to  lay  his  ear  to  his  lips  to  catch  the  words  : 
"  be  good — to — Crystal." 

He  closed  them  once  more,  exhausted,  and  lay  still. 
There  was  a  sudden,  short  convulsion  of  the  limbs — it 
passed,  and  he  was  quiet.  So  he  had  lain  for  fully  five  min 
utes,  his  head  resting  a  dull  weight  in  Lady  Dynely's  arms. 
A  sharp  terror  seized  her — she  looked  helplessly  around. 

"  Is  he  asleep  ?  "  she  piteously  asked. 

Hubert  Boville  came  forward  and  bent  over  him.  He 
laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  for  a  moment,  and  listened  for  his 
breathing.  Then  he  stood  up. 

"Not  as'eep,"  he  said,  very  gently;  "dead." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  POST  TENEBR.E,  LUX." 

N   Galignanfs  Messenger   of  next   day    there   ap 
peared  this  paragraph  : 

"  FEARFUL  DUEL. — Yesterday  morning,  at  seven 
o'clock,  a  meeting  took  place  in  the  Bois  de  Bou 
logne  between  a  certain  princely  personage,  well  known  in 
the  Italian  political  world,  and  an  English  lieutenant  of  dra 
goon  guards.  His  excellency  the  prince  was  attended  by 

Captain  De  C cr It,  of  the  — th  Zouaves,  and  the  other 

combatant  by  the  Hon.  H.  B ville,  attache  of  the  British 

Embassy.  As  usual  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case.  The 
duel  was  fought  with  pistols,  at  fourteen  paces.  The  first 
fire  proved  fatal — the  Englishman  being  shot  through  the 
heart.  The  police  are  on  the  track  of  the  noble  fugitive, 
but  up  to  the  present  without  success." 

In  the  same  column  another  paragraph  appeared  which 
created  a  far  wider  and  deeper  sensation. 

"  SUDDEN  AND  MYSTERIOUS  DEATH. — It  is  with  deepest 
regret  we  announce  to  our  readers  the  awfully  sudden  and 
most  mysterious  death  of  the  charming  actress  whose  beauty 
and  versatility  have  crowded  the  Varieties  for  the  past  four 
months — Madame  Felicia.  Last  night  she  gave  one  of  the 
delightful  receptions  for  which  she  has  ever  been  justly 
famed,  and  appeared  in  her  usual  excellent  health  and  spirits. 
She  retired  about  midnight,  still  seemingly  perfectly  well.  In 
the  morning  her  maid  found  her  dead  in  her  bed.  Suspicion 
of  foul  play  is  at  work,  and  a  post-mortem  will  probably  dis 
cover  the  cause  of  this  death,  which  all  theatre-going  Paris 
ians  will  deeply  regret. 

******* 

It  is  the  close  of  an  exquisite  June  day.     The  old,  long. 


"POST  TENEBR&,   LUX."  455 

deserted  gardens  of  Caryllynne  glow  in  the  warm  rose  light. 
Down  one  of  the  paths  an  elderly  lady,  with  snow-white  hair, 
is  being  wheeled  in  an  invalid  chair  by  a  dark  damsel,  with 
black  sombre  eyes  and  a  look  of  prophetic  melancholy  on 
her  face.  The  elderly  lady  glances  over  her  shoulder  with 
tender,  kindly  eyes. 

"Are  you  not  tired,  Donny?"  she  asks,  gently.  "You 
must  be.  You  have  been  wheeling  me  for  fully  an  hour. 
Do  call  Esther,  my  child." 

The  black,  melancholy  eyes  light. 

"Oh!  no,  grandmamma — I  never  grow  tired  when  with 
you." 

"  My  dear,  how  mournful  you  look,  though.  Do  we  not 
make  you  happy,  little  one  ?  Tell  grandmamma  what  it  is." 

"  Happy ! "  she  clasps  her  hands  almost  with  passion. 
"  Oh,  so  happy  ! — so  happy  that  I  grow  afraid.  It  is  like 
Heaven  to  be  with  you,  and  papa,  and  mamma  France.  No 
one  was  ever  good  to  me  before  since  Joan  died — except 
that  night — him" 

"Poor  Terry  !"  Mrs.  Caryll  sighs;  "he  was  good  to  all 
things.  And  so  it  is  excess  of  happiness  that  makes  you 
sad  ?  A  paradox,  surely,  but  I  am  glad  it  is  no  worse." 

She  takes  her  in  her  arms  and  kisses  her  fondly. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  my  child — I  want  to  make  you 
happy,  to  atone  in  some  way  for  all  the  unhappiness  I  have 
given  your  father.  Love  him,  Donny,  for  his  past  life — oh, 
my  own  dear  Gordon  has  been  dreary  and  loveless  enough." 

"  I  do  love  him,"  the  girl  answers,  her  great  eyes  shining. 
"Who  could  help  it?  So  noble,  so  handsome,  so  good  he 
is.  And  he  is  happy  now — who  would  not  be  happy  with 
Mamma  France  ?  And  to  think  that  to-morro\v  is  their  wed 
ding  day,  and  that  I  am  to  be  one  of  the  bride-maids  !  How 
strange  it  seems." 

"  It  is  a  happiness  he  has  waited  for  long — poor  Gordon," 
his  mother  answers. 

"And  I  have  been  thinking,  too,  grandmamma,  of — of 
her"  she  drops  her  voice,  and  the  great  eyes  dilate  ;  "it  was 
all  so  sudden,  and  so  dreadful.  Oh  !  I  wonder  what  it  was  ! 
— what  made  her  die  like  that  ?  Did  they  ever  find  out  ?  " 


456  "POST  TENEBR^E,   LUX." 

"  Not  for  certain,  Donny,  dear.  Ah  !  don't  let  us  talk 
about  it  to-night — on  this  happy  bridal  eve.  Poor  soul !  it 
was  a  terrible  fate."  She  shudders  as  she  says  it.  She  will 
not  tell  the  daughter  she  was  poisoned.  Poisoned — whether 
by  herself,  maid,  or  whom,  has  never  been  discovered. 
There  are  those  who  have  strong  suspicions  of  the  truth,  but 
— in  Naples,  Prince  Di  Venturini  reigns  in  the  halls  of  his 
forefathers,  and  in  this  world  at  least  justice  does  not  seem 
likely  to  reach  him. 

On  the  terrace  above,  Gordon  Caryll  walks,  France  by 
his  side,  and  both  pace  to  and  fro  in  the  roselight  of  the 
summer  sunset,  with  hearts  too  full  of  bliss  for  many  words. 
France  looks  down  at  the  pair  below,  the  pink  flush  of  the 
sky  kindling  into  brightness  Donny's  dusk  face. 

"  She  will  be  very  handsome,"  Miss  Forrester  says  ;  "  and 
— very  like  her  mother." 

His  face  clouds  for  a  second. 

"  Poor  child ! — yes.  Let  us  trust  the  likeness  will  end 
there.  How  fond  my  mother  seems  of  her.  They  are  never 
happy  apart.  France!"  he  looks  at  her  suddenly,  and  a 
smile  that  is  more  radiant  than  the  sunset  lights  his  grave 
face,  "  this  time  to-morrow  you  will  be  suffering  agonies  of 
sea-sickness  crossing  the  channel.  You  always  are  sea-sick, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know."  She  smiles  back  for  a  moment,  then 
grows  grave.  "  Don't  let  us  visit  Paris,  Gordon,  I  never 
want  to  see  Paris  more.  I  can  never — no,  never — suffer 
again  in  this  life  as  I  have  suffered  there." 

"  We  will  go  wherever  you  please,  my  own  France." 

There  is  silence  again.  The  rose  light  is  fading  from  the 
sky — its  last  rays  fall  on  one  of  the  many  painted  windows  of 
the  old  manor,  the  motto  of  the  house,  cut  in  the  panes,  shines 
out: 

" Post  tenebra,  lux"  she  reads.  "  Oh,  Gordon  !  the  past 
has  been  very  dark  for  you — if  my  love  can  lighten  the 

future  there  will  never  be  another  dark  hour." 

*          *          ******* 

Tn  her  dower  house  Lady  Dynely,  the  elder,  dwells  alone. 


"POST  TENEBR&,   LUX"  457 

0 

She  has  never  quite  recovered  from  the  shock  of  that  death 
bed  in  Paris  —  she  never  will. 

"  From  first  to  last  my  own  selfish  love  for  my  son  spoiled 
his  life,"  she  ever  says  ;  "  he  did  not  know  what  selfishness 
meant.  I  and  mine  blighted  his  existence  —  brought  him  to 
his  death.  He  forgave  me  —  Heaven  may  —  I  never  will  for 
give  myself." 

So  she  lives  on,  quietly  doing  good  to  all.  No  one  can 
accuse  her  of  selfishness  now.  Her  son  is  a  better  son  than 
he  ever  was  before,  but  she  knows  that  he,  who  died  that 
rainy  February  morning,  loved  and  honored  her,  as 
no  human  being  ever  did  before,  ever  will  again.  They 
brought  him  home,  and  the  great  vault  of  the  Dynelys  was 
opened,  and  he  was  laid  to  sleep  with  them.  People  won 
dered  at  it  a  good  deal  —  but  then  Lady  Dynely  had  always 
been  a  little  eccentric  since  her  husband's  death.  They 
wonder  still  more  as  they  read  the  inscription  above  him. 
It  is  a  slab  of  plain  gray  granite,  with  gold  lettering,  and  it 
says  this  : 

J3ACRED  TO  THE 


TERENCE    DENNISON, 

WHO    GAVE    HIS    LIFE    TO    SAVE     ANOTHER'S, 

FEBRUARY  2QTH,    1  8  —  . 

^ETAT  25   YEARS. 

**  Greater  lave  than  this  no  man  hath  :—TJiat  he  lay  d<nvn  his  life  for  his 
friend" 

******  *  *  * 

In  this  same  rosy  sunset,  Crystal,  Viscountess  Dynely,  sits 
alone,  fair  and  sweet,  and  youthful,  as  this  time  last  year 
when  she  walked  about  the  Lincolnshire  lanes  and  waited 
for  Terry  Dennison  to  come  and  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 
She  is  alone,  dressed  for  dinner  in  the  crisp  white  muslin 
and  blue  ribbons  that  become  her  childish  fairness  best, 
and  which  her  husband  best  likes  to  see  her  wear.  And 
if  that  husband  fancied  hodden-gray  or  sackcloth  and  ashes, 
be  very  sure  this  exceptional  wife  would  never  have  donned 
other  array.  She  is  waiting  for  him  now  to  come  to  dinner, 
listening  with  love's  impatience  for  the  first  sound  of  the  foot- 
20 


458  "POST  TENEBR&,   LUX." 

step,  the  first  note  of  the  gay  whistle  she  knows  so  well.  For 
she  is  happy  once  more,  poor  Crystal,  and  Eric  is  all  her 
own  again. 

She  knows  the  whole  story.  Weeks  after,  when  strength 
had  come  back  to  the  weak  frame,  and  light  to  the  dim  blue 
eyes,  sitting  side  by  side,  his  arm  around  her,  Eric  had  told 
all — all.  Nothing  had  been  hidden,  and  she  learned  at  last 
how  noble  was  the  heart  she  had  refused,  the  heart  stilled 
forever.  The  blue  eyes  dilated,  the  lips  parted  and  quivered, 
the  tender  face  grew  very  pale,  and  she  flung  her  arms  about 
her  husband  wildly,  and  strained  him  to  her. 

"  Oh,  Eric  i "  she  cried  out ;  "  to  think  it  might  have  been 
you  ! " 

Oh,  selfish  human  heart !  To  the  depths  of  her  soul  she 
wondered  at  the  brave  generosity  of  him  who  was  gone  ;  to 
her  inmost  heart  she  bowed  down  in  reverence.  She  wept 
for  his  loss,  real  and  passionate  tears — dear,  brave,  noble 
Terry  !  her  playmate  and  friend, — but  her  first  thought  was 
for  her  own  idol,  her  first  impulse  one  of  unutterable  glad 
ness  that  it  had  not  been  he.  She  caught  her  breath,  with 
the  horror  of  it,  and  while  her  tears  fell  for  Terry,  she  held 
the  man  for  whom  Terry  had  died,  close  to  her  impassioned 
little  heart,  and  cried,  again  and  again  : 

"  Oh,  my  darling  !  my  darling  !  to  think  it  might  have 
been  you  !  " 

As  Eric  never  had,  never  would,  she  knew  Terry  had  loved 
her.  She  was  grateful  to  him  ;  she  strewed  his  coffin  with 
flowers ;  she  wept  her  pretty  eyes  red,  again  and  again, 
over  his  grave  ;  but  she  loved  Eric,  and  she  never  thought 
of  that  dreadful  morning  under  the  dripping  trees  of  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne  without  a  prayer  of  trembling  thankfulness 
that  it  was  he  who  was  taken,  and  not  her  beloved. 

And  Eric  is  very  good  to  her,  very  gentle  and  tender  with 
her,  very  affectionate,  after  the  manner  of  men  and  husbands. 
And  she  does  not  ask  much  ;  she  gives  so  greatly  that  a  small 
return  suffices.  That  small  return,  Jet  me  say,  the  Right 
Honorable  Lord  Viscount  Dynely  gives  willingly  and  from 
his  heart ;  and  Crystal  is  happy — and  the  curtain  falls  to 
universal  felicity  ?  Well,  as  the  leopard  cannot  change  his 


"POST  TENEBR&,    LUX."  459 

spotr,  nor  the  Ethiop  his  skin,  so  men  of  Lord  Dynely's 
stamj)  do  not  change  their  nature.  Kind  he  will  be  to  her 
always — Terry  Dennison's  dead  face  would  rise  from  the 
-jrave  to  haunt  him  if  he  were  not — affectionate,  too,  after 
his  lii^ht,  for  in  a  sultan-like,  off-hand  way,  lordly  Eric  is  fond 
of  his  little  wife  ;  faithful,  also,  with  a  fidelity  that  will  include 
more  or  less  admiration  and  attention  for  every  pretty  woman 
he  meets ;  but  for  Crystal,  or  France,  or  one  of  us  all,  to 
be  perfectly  happy,  is  not  given  to  any  one  born  of  woman. 
This,  Crystal  knows — that  all  the  happiness  that  is  hers,  all 
that  ever  will  be  hers,  has  come  to  her  across  Terry  Denni 
son's  grave. 


THE    END, 


1876. 


1876. 


NEW   BOOKS 


AND    NEW    EDITIONS, 

RECENTLY    ISSUED   BY 

G,  W,  CARLETON  &  Co,,  Publishers, 

Madison  Square,  New  York. 


The  Publishers,  upon  receipt  of  the  price  in  advance,  will  send  any  book  on  this  Catalogue 
by  mail,  postage  free,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States. 

q 

All  books  in  this  list  [unless  otherwise  specified]  are  handsomely  bound  in  cloth  board 
binding,  \vith  gilt  backs,  suitable  for  libraries. 


Tempest  and  Sunshine 

English  Orphans...    

Homestead  on  the  Hillside 

'Lena  Rivers 

Meadow  Brook 

Dora  Deane 

Cousin  Maude 

Marian  Grey 

Edith  Lyle (New) 


Mrs,    Mary_J.   Holmes'   'Works. 


Alone 

Hidden  Path.. 
Moss  Side.... 
Nemesis  .... 

Miriam   

At  Last 

Helen  Gardner. 
True  as    Steel. 


Marion    Harland's    Works. 


.  (New) 


Charles   Dickens— 15 

Pickwick,   and  Catalogue \ 

Dorrsbey  and  Son 

B'.eak  House 

Martin  Chozxlewit 

Barnaby  Rudge — Edwin  Drood.. 
Child  s  England— Miscellaneous 


Oliver  Twist — and— The  Uncommercial   Traveler 


Great  Expectations — and — Picture 
Christmas  Books— and— A  Tale  of 
Sets  of  Dickens'  Complete  Works 


Bculah.. 
ji  Macaria. 
i  Inez.  .  . 


50  |  Darkness  and  Daylight. 

50  j  Hugh  Worthington 

50  j  Cameron  Pride 


50  ;  Rose  Mather 
0  I  Etheln's   Mist 


stake 


Ethely 
lfillba 

Edna   Browning  .................. 

West    Lawn  ........  (New)  ........ 


50  Sunnybank 

50  Husbands  and   Homes 

50  Ruby's  Husband 

50  Phemie's   Temptation 

50  The  Empty  Heart 

50  Jessamine 

50  From   My  Youth   Up 

50  My  Little  Love (New) 

Vols.— "  Carleton's    Edition." 

50  i  David   Copperfield $ 

50     Nicholas   Nickleby 

50  I  Little   Dorrit 

50     Our  Mutual    Friend   

50     Curiosity  Shop — Miscellaneous.. 
50     Sketches  by  Boz — Hard  Times 


of  Italy  and  America 

Two  Cities 

,  in   15  vols. — [elesant  half  calf  bindings].  60  oo 


Augusta   J.    Elans'    Novels. 

"     ;5     St.  Elmo $ 


Vashti 
Infelice 


(New) 


z  G.   W.  CARLETON  &  CO? S  PUBLICATIONS. 

Miriam    Coles    Harris. 

Rutledge $i  50.  The  Sutherlands $i  50 

Frank  Warrington i  50  I  St.    Philip's 150 

Louie's  Last  Term,  etc i  50  I  Round  Hearts,  for  Children i  50 

Richard  Vandermarck i  50  |  A  Perfect  Adonis.     (New) i  50 

May   Agnes    Fleming's    Novels. 

Guy   Ear'scourt's  Wife $i  75  I  A  Wonderful  Woman §i  75 

A.  Terrible  Secret i  75  |  A  Mad  Marriage 175 

Norine's  Revenge i  75  I  One   Night's  Mystery.    (New)...    175 

A  New  Book i  75  | 

Grace   Mortimer. 

The  Two  Barbaras. — A  novel.  ...$i  50  |  Bosom  Foes.    (In  press) $i  50 

th's    Novels. 

The  Widower $i  75 

The  Married  Belle i  75 

Ten  Old  Maids i  75  I  Courting  and  Farming 175 

His   Young  Wife.     (New) 175! 

Captain    Mayne    Reid— Illustrated. 

The  Scalp  Hunters $i  50  I  The  White  Chief §150 

The  Rifle   Rangers i  50  |  The  Tiger  Hunter 150 

The  War  Trail 150    The  Hunter's  Feast 150 


Julie    P.    Smi1 

Widow  Goldsmith's  Daughter.. $i  75  I  1 
Chris  and  Otho i  75  |l 


The  Wood  Rangers i  50 

The  Wild  Huntress i  50 


Wild  Life i  50 

Osceola,  the  Seminole i  50 


True  to  the  Last $z  50 

The  Star  and  the  Cloud i  30 

How  Could  He  Help  It.? i  50 


A.   S.   Roe's   Select    Stories. 


A  Long   Look  Ahead $i  50 

I've  Been  Thinking i  50 

To  Love  and  to  be  Loved i  50 


Charles    Dickens. 

Child's  History  of  England. — Carleton's  New  "School Edition."    Illustrated.. $i  25 

Hand-Books   of   Society. 

Habits  of  Good  Society. — The  nice  points  of  taste  and  good  manners $i  50 

Art  of  Conversation. — For  those  who  wish  to  be  agreeable  talkers  or  listeners i  50 

Arts  of  Writing,  Reading,  and  Speaking.— For  self-improvement i  50 

New  Diamond  Edition. — Small  size,  elegantly  bound,  3  volumes  in  a  box 3  oo 

Mrs.  Hill's   Cook  Book. 

Mrs.  A.  P.  Hill's  New  Cookery  Book,  and  family  domestic  receipts §2  oo 

Famous  Books— "  Carleton's  Edition." 

Robinson  Crusoe. — New  izmo  edition,  with  illustrations  by  ERNEST  GRISET $i  50 

Swiss  Family  Robinson. — New  121110  edition,  with  illustrations  by  MARCKI i  50 

The  Arabian  Nights. — New  121710  edition,  with  illustrations  by  DEMORAINE i  50 

Don  Quixote. — New  i2mo  edition,  with  illustrations  by  GUSTAVE  DORB i  50 

Victor    Hugo. 

Les  Miserables. — An  English  translation  from  the  original  French.     Octavo $2  50 

Les  Miserables. — In  the  Spanish  Language.     Two  volumes,  cloth  bound 5  oo 

Popular   Italian    Novels. 

Doctor  Antonio. — A  love  story  of  Italy.     By  Ruffini  $z  75 

Beatrice  Cenci. — By  Guerrazzi.     With  a  steel  engraving  from  Guide's  Picture....    i  75 

M.  Michelet's   Remarkable ,  Works. 

Love  (L  amour). — English  translation  trom  the  original  French $i  50 

Woman  (La  Femme). — Do Do Do i  50 

Joaquin    Miller. 

The  One  Fair  Woman. — A  new  novel,  the  scene  laid  chiefly  in  Italy f  2  oo 

Joseph   Rodman   Drake. 

The  Culprit  Fay. — The  well-known  fairy  poem,  with  100  illustrations $2  oo 

Artenms   Ward's   Comic    Works. 

A  New  Stereotype  Edition. — Embracing  the  whole  of  his  writings,  with  a  Bio 
graphy  of  the  author,  and  profu  sely  illustrated  by  various  artists 


G.   W.   CARLETON  &  CO.JS  PUBLICATIONS. 


Josh   Billings. 

A  New  Stereotype   Edition  of  the  complete  writings  of  Josh   Billings.     Four 

vols.  in  one,  with  Biography,  steel  portrait,  and  100  comic  illustrations $2  oc 

Bessie    Turner. 

A  Woman  in  the  Case. — A  new  novel,  with  photographic  portrait  of  author...  §i  50 

Wm.   P.  Talboys. 
West  India  Pickles. — Journal  of  a  Winter  Yacht  Cruise,  with  illustrations  ....   $i  50 

Dr.  A.   K.   Gardner. 

Oui    Children. — A  Hand-book  for  the  Instruction  of  Parents  and  Guardian* $a  oo 

C.  H.  Webb   (John   Paul). 

Paredies  and  Poems $i  50  |  My  Vacation. — Sea  and  Shore $i  30 

Livingston    Hopkins. 
Cofflte  Centennial  History  of  the  United  States. — Profusely  illustrated $i  50 

Allan   Pinkerton. 

Tha  Model  Town,  etc §i  50  |  A  New   Book.  (In  press) §i  50 

Mrs.   M.   V.   Victor. 

Passing  the  Portal.— A  new  story.  §i  50)  A  New   Book.  (In  press) fi  50 

Ernest    Kenan's   French   Works. 

The  Life  of  Jesus §i  75  I  The  Life  of  St.  Paul $i  75 

Lives  of  the  Apostles i  75  |  The  Bible  in  India.— By  Jacolliot..a  oo 

Geo.    W.   Carleton. 

Our  Artist  in  Cuba. — Pictures $i  50  I  Our  Artist  in  Africa.     (In  press). .$i  50 

Our  Artist  in  Peru.        Do i  50  |  Our  Artist  in  Mexico.       Do.        ..150 

Verdant    Green, 

A  racy  English  college  story — with  numerous  original  comic  illustrations Si  30 

Algernon   Charles    Swinburne. 

Laus  Veneris,  and  Other  Poems. — An  elegant  new  edition,  on  tinted  paper.  ..$i  50 
French  Love-Songs — Selectee1  from  the  best  French  authors i  50 

Robert   Dale   Owen. 

The  Debatable  Land  Between  this  World  and  the  Next $2  oo 

Threading  My  Way. — Twenty- five  years  of  Autobiography i  50 

The   Game   of  Whist. 

Pole  on  Whist. — The  late  English  standard  work.     New  enlarged  edition §i  oo 

Mother    Goose   Set   to    Music. 

Mothei   Goose  Melodies. — With  music  for  singing,  and  many  illustratrons $i  50 

M.    M.   Pomsroy  ("Brick-") 

Nonsense — (a  comic  book) $i  50 

Brick-Dust          Do  j  50 

Home  Harmonies.     (In   press) i  50 


Sense — (a  serious  book) $i  50 

Gold-Dust        Do,         i  50 

Our  Saturday  Nights i  50 


Celia   E.    Gardner's   Novels. 


Stolen  Waters— (in  verse) §i  50 


Tested : (in  prose). $i  75 

Rich  Medway's  Two  Loves.  Do.,    i  75 


Broken  Dreams      Do. 

A  New  Novel.     (In  press) i  50 

Mrs.   N.   S.    Emerson. 

Betsey  and  I  are  Out.—  .\>ems...$i  50  |  Little  Folks'  Letters.— Prose. ?i  50 

Louija   M.   Alcott. 
Morning  Glories— A  beautiful  child's  book,  by  the  author  of  "  Little  Women."... .  f  i  5* 

Geo.   A.    Crofutt- 
;  Trans-Continental  Tourist  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco. — Illustrated..?!  50 


G.  W.  CARLE  TON  &  CO:S  PUBLICATIONS. 
Miscellaneous   Works. 


Johnny  Ludlow. — A  collection  of  entertaining  English  stones $ 

Glimpses  of  the  Supernatural. — Facts,  Records,  and  Traditions 

Fanny  Fern  Memorials. — With  a  Biography  by  James  Parton 

How  to  Make  Money;  and  How  to  Keep  It. — By  Thomas  A.  Davies....  *. ... 

Tales  From  the  Operas. — A  collection  of  Stories  based  upon  the  opera  plots 

New  Nonsense  Rhymes. — By  W.  H.  Beckett,  with  illustrations  by  C.  G.  Bush.. 

Wood's  Guide  to  the  City  of  New  York. — Beautifully  illustrated 

The  Art  of  Amusing. — A  book  of  home  amusements,  with  illustrations 

A  Book  About  Lawyers. — A  curious  and  interesting  volume.    By  Jeaffreson.... 

A  Book  About  Doctors.  Do.  Do.  Do 

The  Birth  and  Triumph  of  Love. — Full  of  exquisite  tinted  illustrations. 

Progressive  Petticoats. — A  satirical  tale  by  Robert  B.  Roosevelt 

Ecce  Femina  ;  or,  the  Woman  Zoe. — Cuyler  Pine,  author  "  Mary  Brandegee." 

Souvenirs  of  Travel. — By  Madame  Octavia  Walton  Le  Vert  

Woman,  Love  and  Marriage.— A  spicy  little  work  by  Fred  Saunders 

Shiftless  Folks. — A  brilliant  new  novel  by  Fannie  Smith 

A  Woman  in  Armor. — A  powerful  new  novel  by  Mary  Hartwell 

The  Fall  of  Man. — A  Darwinian  satire.     Author  of  "  New  Gospel  of  Peace." 

The  Chronicles  of  Gotham. — A  modern  satire.     Do.  Do.  

The  Story  of  a  Summer. — Journal  Leaves  by  Cecelia  Cleveland 

Phemie  Frost's  Experiences. — By  Mrs  Ann  S.  Stephens 

Bill  Arp's  Peace  Papers. — Full  of  comic  illustrations . 

A  Book  of  Epitaphs. — Amusing,  quaint,  and  curious (New) 

Ballad  of  Lord  Bateman. — With  illustrations  by  Cruikshank,  (paper) 

The  Yachtman's  Primer. — For  amateur  sailors.     T.  R.  Warren,  (paper) 

Rural  Architecture. — By  M.  Field.     With  plans  and  illustrations 

What  I  Know  of  Farming. — By  Horace  Greeley 

Transformation   Scenes  in   the   United    States. — By  Hiram  Fuller 

Marguerite's  Journal. — Story  for  girls.     Introduction  by  author  "  Rutledge." . . . 
Kingsbury  Sketches. — Pine  Grove  doings,  by  John  H.  Kingsbury.    Illustrated.. 

Miscellaneous   Novels. 


Led  Astray  —By  Octave  Fetiillet..$ 
She  Loved  Him  Madly. — Borys.. 
Through  Thick  and  Thin. — Mery. 

So  Fair  Yet  False.— Chavette 

A  Fatal   Passion. — Bomard 

Manfred. — F.  D.  Guerazzi 

Seen  and  Unseen 

Purple  and  Fine  Linen. — Fawcett.. 

Asses'  Ears Do. 

A  Charming  "Widow. — Macquoid. 
True  to  Him  Ever. — By  F.  W.  R.. 
The  Forgiving  Kiss.— By  M.  Loth. 

Loyal  Unto  Death  

Kenneth,  My  King.— S.  A.  Brock.. 
Heart  Hungry.-M.  J.Westmoreland 
Clifford  Troupe.  Do. 

Silcott    Mill.— Mrs.  Deslonde 

Ebon  and  Gold.— C.  L.  Mcllvain.. 
Robert  Greathouse.—J.  F.  Swift.. 
Charette ...  


Beldazzle's  Bachelor  Studies... 
Little  Wanderers. — Illustrated.  .. 
Genesis  Disclosed. — T.  A.  Davies. 
Commodore  Rollingpin's  Log.. 
Brazen  Gates. — A  juvenile 


Saint  Leger.— Richard  B.  Kimball.i 

Was  He  Successful?  Do. 

Undercurrents  of  Wall  St.      Do. 
Romance  of  Student  Life.... Do. 

Life  in  San  Domingo Do. 

Henry  Powers,  Banker  Do. 

To-Day Do. 

Bessie  Wilmarton. — Westcott  

Cachet.— Mrs.  M.  J.  R.  Hamilton... 
Romance  of  Railroad.— Smith. ... 

Fairfax. — John  Esten  Cooke 

Hilt  to  Hilt.  Do 

Out  of  the  Foam.      Do 

Hammer  and  Rapier.Do 

Warwick.— By  M.  T.  Walworth 
Lulu.  Do. 

Hotspur.  Do. 

Stormcliff.  Do. 

Delaplaine.  Do. 

Beverly,  Do. 


Miscellaneous    Works. 

Northern  Ballads. —  Anderson $ 


Antidote  to  Gates  Ajar 25 

The  Snoblace  Ball 25 


O.  C.  Kerr  Papers.  -4  vols.  in  x. ... 

Victor  Hugo. — His  life .. 

Beauty  is   Power 

Sandwiches. — Artemus  Ward 

Widow  Spriggins. — Widow  Bedott. 
Squibob  Papers. — John  Phcenix 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

A  New  Edition. 

A  incog  the  many  editions  of  the  works  of  this  greatest  of 
English  Novelists,  there  has  not  been  until  now  one  that  entirely 
satisfies  the  public  demand. — Without  exception,  they  each  have 
tome  strong  distinctive  objection, — either  the  form  and  dimensions 
of  the  volumes  are  unhandy — or,  the  type  is  small  and  indistinct — 
or,  the  frustrations  are  unsatisfactory — or,  the  binding  is  poor — or, 
the  price  ts  too  high. 

An  entirely  new  edition  is  now,  however,  published  by  G.  W. 
Carleton  &  Co.  of  New  York,  which,  it  is  believed,  will,  in  every 
respect,  completely  satisfy  the  popular  demand. — It  is  known  as 

"Carleton'§  tfew  Illustrated  Edition." 

COMPLETE  IN  15  VOLUMES. 

The  size  and  form  is  most  convenient  for  holding, — the  type  is 
entirely  new,  and  of  a  clear  and  open  character  that  has  received  the 
approval  of  the  reading  community  in  other  popular  works. 

The  illustrations  are  by  the  original  artists  chosen  ly  Charles 
Dickens  himself — and  the  paper,  printing,  and  binding  are  of  an 
attractive  and  substantial  character. 

This  beautiful  new  edition  is  complete  in  15  volumes — at  the 
extremely  reasonable  price  of  $1.50  per  volume,  as  follows: — 

I. — PICKWICK  PAPERS   AND    CATALOGUE. 

2. — OLIVER  TWIST. — UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

3. — DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

4. — GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. — ITALY  AND  AMERICA. 

5. — DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

6. — BARNABY  RUDGE  AND   EDWIN   DROOD, 

7. — NICHOLAS    NICKLEBY. 

8. — CURIOSITY   SHOP  AND   MISCELLANEOUS. 

9. — BLEAK   HOUSE. 
10, — LITTLE   DORRIT. 
II. — MARTIN   CHUZZLEWIT. 
12. — OUR   MUTUAL   FRIEND. 

13. — CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. — TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 
4. — SKETCHES  BY  1/OZ  AND  HARD  TIMES. 
15. — CHILD'S  ENGLAND  AND  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  first  volume  —Pickwick  Papers— contains  an  alplmbetiaJ 
catalogue  of  all  of  Charles  Dickens'  writings,  with  their  p-xatia-js 
in  the  volumes. 

This  edition  is  sold  by  Booksellers,  everywhere — and  single  speci 
men  copies  will  be  forwarded  by  mail,  postage  freet  on  receipt  of 
price,  $1.50,  by 

G,  W,  CARLETON  &  CO,,  Publishers, 

Madison  Square,  New  York. 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBEARY, 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


off 

JUL    241931 

INTER-UBRARt 
LOAN 

FEB  2  1 1967 


50m-8,'26 


YCI036I9 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


